Pandemonium
by kili-grabmyhand
Summary: "If you would be so foolish as to return," he whispers, "Then I promise you that I will ruin you." Loki returns to Asgard in chains. He awaits condemnation, but his fate has long been sealed; he shall not be deterred from his glorious purpose. He has no soul, only scars, so why does she stay? He will ruin her. The God of Lies longs for the deathly sweet taste of Chaos. Loki/Sigyn
1. Mischief and Mayhem

"Why, brother?" asks Thor, eyes like thunderclouds.

Loki cannot refrain from smiling. "Why?" he repeats.

Thor dwells in a state of perpetual ignorance. "Why?"

"You want to know why, do you?" Loki questions.

"Speak truly, brother." Thor says, frowning deeply.

This is a child at prayer, Loki thinks. It is pitiful. Thor might have evolved from the war-hungry brute he once was, but this ignorance is all that he will ever amount to. Loki, the God of Lies, harbinger of Chaos, was bred for this, but Thor hasn't the heart for it. Loki will draw this out as much as it pleases him, for he has hungered for this. He will use his words and leave Thor with nothing but darkness for a companion.

"Ask, rather, why the serpent Nidhogg eats the roots of Yggdrasil."

"Brother," Thor intones, brows drawing closer together. "I do not understand."

"You wouldn't, would you?" Loki laughs bitterly, "I should not expect the Golden Son of As—"

Thor sharply interrupts, "What have those tales to do with your plight, Loki?" he gruffly asks.

An insincere smile spreads across Loki's lips as he watches the oaf fight a losing battle. "And such a plight it has been, brother." he says, and Thor simply looks at him, lost yet expectant and silently hopeful that he might reclaim a brother, but that Loki was long of bruises and gashes remain, but it is the scars hidden beneath the skin that are the most gruesome.

"The Allfather will summon you, Loki." Thor explains. "There High Court shall gather.

Loki presses a long, pale finger to his lips and taps, "Why does the serpent Nidhogg eat the roots of Yggdrasil?"

Thor ignores Loki, instead he bites out commands of his own. "Tell me your reasons, Loki. Enough of these stories."

"Why, when the tree's death means, in turn, the dragons ruin?" Loki purses his lips, as though he were truly curious.

Before Loki can comprehend what he has set in motion, Thor has charged forward and pinned him up against the far wall, a calloused hand on each shoulder to hold him firmly in place. Loki can see a fire that lingers in Thor's eyes, a brashness concealed behind masks of bravery and golden shields of presumed honour.

"Speak not of this nonsense, brother." Thor demands, nostrils flaring. "Why?"

Loki bares his teeth in a snarl. "Because, Thor, I keep telling you, that this is what I was born to do." he says, smiling insincerely.

Thor hesitates, the grip on Loki's shoulders loosens marginally. "You were not born for this, Loki."

"Then what was I born for?" asks Loki, with a small look of amusement plastered across his features.

"You were born to be a King of Asgard," Thor announces, as though he truly believes those words.

"Fret not, brother." Loki laughs mirthlessly, "I shall ascend to the throne, but not just of Asgard."

"And how should you achieve such things when you are to be bound to Asgard?" Thor wonders.

Eyes aglow with madness, Loki clearly articulates each word. "I shall be ruler of all the realms," he smiles wickedly, "All in good time, of course."

* * *

"You are to answer for your crimes against Midgard." says Odin, without preamble. He has grown weary in the absence of the outcast, but there is neither sadness nor grief in grey eyes as he looks down upon Loki as he continues, "You will stand trial before myself and a High Court and a suitable punishment shall be set down accordingly."

Loki smiles unkindly. "I shall do no such thing." he corrects.

The Allfather continues as though Loki hadn't spoken. "Your trial shall commence come morning." he says, without an ounce of feeling.

"I shall be escorted to the dungeons then," Loki assumes. "To reside there in the meantime."

Odin remains stoic and indifferent. "You have given me no such reason to decide otherwise."

Loki wonders which old wounds to dig his nails into first. "How fitting for a prince." he drawls.

"You have shown no remorse or regret," Odin begins, voice rising, eyes darkening, "You feel no sorrow for your recklessness that not only cost innocent mortals of their lives, but you gravely endangered the lives of countless innocent beings. You waged an unnecessary war against a defenceless realm, and in the name of what? Greed? Stupidity?"

Aghast at the use of such a term, Loki cannot help but laugh. "The humans slaughter each other in droves! Tell me, Oh Wise Odin, how that is innocence?"

Odin draws in a sharp breath before he begins. "You have acted carelessly and callously, and you have tainted the realm of Midgard with the blood of the hundreds who have fallen because of this madness. Because of you, because of what you have done, you have compromised each Realm and exposed us to a force of evil that you cannot begin to comprehend."

Loki was lost, once. He knew not of purpose or destiny, but he has found what it is he was bred to be. Long forgotten are the days where he was once a son of Odin, a son of Asgard. Loki sighs heavily, "Old Odin - because of what I've done, there will soon be no Asgard to compromise. Because of me, because of what I've done, the age of Odin and his sons is ending."

The Allfather is outwardly unaffected by such a remark, to which Loki is mildly disappointed, for he has always relished in drawing out reactions from the sheer force of his wit and his words, but Odin remains stern and stoic, stubbornly refusing to reveal how such words wound him. Odin manages to restrain his rage quite nicely, but Loki can see the tell tale signs, the cracks in the mask, the chinks in the armour.

"You are a malevolent and mercliess boy." he says.

"I am not a boy, Old Odin." Loki sneers, baring teeth.

"And yet you are not a man, you are not worthy of the title."

"I am a God." he reminds, fixing the Allfather with an icy stare.

Odin continues to contain his rage quite admirably. "And a monster."

"Fire and chaos are coming, father." Loki declares. "And I am the Lord of Chaos."

"You are the God of Mischief and Lies," Odin's voice booms across the Great Hall, and Loki has to force himself to not flinch at the harshness and the hatred, but he struggles to remain indifferent as Odin continues, "And you are no son of mine!"

Loki winces, but is swift to suppress it by smiling broadly, madly. "No, mischief is a small thing. A toy I've well used and discarded. This isn't mischief, this is mayhem. Just watch." he embraces the monster within, because to fight would only prolong the inevitable.

The Allfather signals for Loki to be escorted away. He does not fear The Other nor Thanos, for he has suffered greatly at their hands and there is little they might do to him now to instill a sense of fear in him. Loki is not without fear, for he worries of the terrors that lurk in the crevices of his mind and what might lurk there is worse than the fate that awaited when he fell from the Bifrost. These miseries of life are what made Loki. Scars stain skin and evils poison his mind and his heart and soul, but there is no shedding them, for they are now all he consists of.

The Lord of Chaos eagerly awaits the sweet taste of chaos.

* * *

A/N: This is the first time I have ventured into this fandom - all feedback would be appreciate! Enjoy, and the chapters will increase significantly from here on out, as this was just a prologue of sorts. Thank you for reading!


	2. Glory and Greatness

Madness consumed Loki long ago, and he is no longer fearful of it. He welcomes it. Darkness is soothing against the violent horrors of reality, and he embraces it like the old companion or the long lost love that he never had. He would rather run towards the madness than run away from it in a vain attempt to escape it. There is no escaping insanity, not once it has marked you as its own.

Fear is all-consuming. He knows from experiencing, for he was once consumed, controlled and possessed, but he swore he should not allow himself to feel so enslaved to such weakness. Loki grew tired of fighting, so he grew fierce instead.

Alone and insane and encased in darkness, Loki wonders whether he should plague the House of Odin with the sound of his terrible screams, or should he shout curses and bestow plagues and swear vengeance instead. He has been banished to a small, cold cell. It is devoid of light, aside from the flickering of a torch in the hallway that seeps through the tiny gap between the iron door and the stones beneath.

What the cell lacks in width, it makes up for in height, and substantially so. It is endless, as far as Loki can see. The walls too are made up stones, such as the floor. And aside from the tiny slivers of light that sneak through from underneath the door, there is no light, but there is a window a fair way up the wall is perhaps the length of two hands and the width of one, with multiple bars preventing entry or exist.

From this window, the glowing light of the moon allows for a sickly blue light to trickle in, but it stops because it reaches Loki, dangling just above as Loki surveys the room slowly. In the far corner of the room there is a bed made of iron. The legs are bolted down, as is the tiny square table settled in the center of the cell. Additionally, there is an archway with a small adjoining room, perhaps for bathing.

Loki inches towards the bed slowly, sitting on the edge when he reaches it. He does so almost cautiously, because he has not allowed such a luxury in an immeasurable amount of time. Ever so slowly, he lowers his body down onto the iron. Loki stretches slowly, crossing one leg over the other, but leaves his hands as they are, as though he had a choice, for they are still bound before him.

It is in moments of silence and solitude such as these that Loki wonders what it would feel like, to possess such a thing as a soul. Initially, he believed that he ought to have been in possession of one at some point in time, but the string of miseries that make up his life eradicate any such evidence that might such he has held such a rarity.

Loki is rigid in posture, tense in every sense of the word. He is uncertain, unsure of himself. Just as he thinks he might rest, he hears thudding footsteps and a thunderous voice demanding that the doors to the cell be opened at once.

Thor submerges into the darkness, brandishing a torch by his side.

Slowly, Loki sits up from where he was previously strewn. He stands with difficulty, but this does little to ease Thor's discomfort or his suspicions, for he still eyes Loki off cautiously, as though he fears Loki's capabilities. And so he should, Loki thinks. He should be terrified. Fleeing as though his life depended on it, and Loki supposes that it does.

"Why?" asks Thor.

Loki wishes to strike Thor. For such insolence, he ought to be.

"WHY?" Thor yells, voice booming throughout the silence of the dimly lit cell.

"You ask why," Loki drawls, taking a single step forward as he does, "I ask 'why not'."

And this offering shall not suffice, not for the Almighty Thor. He and Thor shall never be equals.

Loki's voice is sharp, like the edge of a blade. "Why, when I am capable of such greatness, would I not wish to exhibit my capabilities for all to see?"

Thor recoils, disgusted. "Greatness? Such acts of war and terror shall not bring you glory, Loki."

"Never before have I seen a greater sight than that of a burning city," Loki confesses, inching closer slowly, "Or an entire race in complete and utter panic over the chaos that I and I alone brought upon them. That, dear Thor, is what true greatness feels like."

Words linger on the tip of his tongue, cruel ones that speak of condemnation and revulsion, but Thor swallows them down and stands his ground. He shall not yield, not even in the face of such callous cruelty.

"Never before have I experienced such intense feelings of greatness, as when I watched that despicable race fall to their knees before me," Loki continues, and Thor is stunned into silence by such abhorrent words. "As they rightfully should."

Thor shifts from foot to foot, his grip on Mjölnir tightening. "Enough."

Loki laughs dryly. "It burns you, to have come so close to your answers, only to fail. To fall." he pauses, reveling in conflict evident in Thor's eyes. "It is pure agony, isn't it? Fret not, Thor, for you would only be disappointed with what it is I have to say. But is that not always so?"

"Speak." Thor growls, low and demanding, but Loki shall not be commanded.

"You are deluded, Odinson." he says, voice a low snarl. "There is no salvation."

Thor's eyes soften, with something like pity. "You are not damned, Loki, you are—"

"I am what, Thor?" Loki interrupts, cocking his head to the side. "What am I, if not a monster?"

Loki is beyond reason, but he is no monster, or so Thor would believe. "You are no such thing."

"If I am not a creation of chaos, then what I am?" he asks sharpy, tired of Thor's sentimentality.

"You are my brother." says Thor, and there is a faint fondness in his eyes that makes Loki falter.

It is a brief falter, and Thor is not nearly perceptive enough to notice. Loki watches Thor intently, sees the hope that brews in his eyes despite all of this darkness, and he is struck with the sudden urge to quash that flame.

"You seeks out answers, but you are not humble enough to accept those which I have already given." Loki cuts across the silence abruptly, voice harsh yet hoarse. "The answers that you wish to hear are ones that I am not in possession of. You ask why, I ask why not. Why not conquer a world that craves subjugation?"

Thor tightens his grip on Mjölnir instinctively. "Enough, Loki. Enough of this madness."

"I will tell you again, as I have told you from the beginning, that this is what I was born for."

"Enough!" his voice bellows across the darkness, such as Odin's had across the Great Hall.

"But it isn't, is it? It never will be enough. It never was." Loki hisses. "Not for you, not for _father_."

"You were not born for this, Loki." Thor says, but he sounds less certain. "This is not your fate."

Loki snickers, then sharply reminds Thor of his true origins. "I was born in Jotunheim, Thor, not Asgard. You know their nature. This is inevitability, Thor. My fate has long been sealed and you saw to that when you dropped me from the Bifrost!"

Thor shakes his head profusely. "This is madness, Loki. Madness. Enough!"

"But it never will be, not until I reap upon this realm the mayhem that such a glorious land truly deserves," he says, words sharp and vehemently vicious. "Even then, that will not be enough, it will never be enough, you ignorant oaf!"

"Guards!" Thor shouts, nostrils flaring, eyes wide in shock.

Loki laughs manically. "You think that they can silence me? I will speak these unspoken truths about humanity and Asgard and a glory that even you, in all of your might and all of your fame, couldn't even begin to comprehend. And I will chant them until my silver tongue turns numb."

Thor's voice swells with sorrow, but the fury rages on in his eyes. "Goodbye, brother." he says.

"I'm not your brother." Loki reminds, eyes unnervingly blank as the guards enter with his muzzle.

Loki does not lower his eyes, he stares Thor down defiantly. He does not falter or break, not as Thor steps forward with the muzzle in hand and certainly not when he begins to fasten it. Loki cares little for his unquenchable thirst or his dry, broken lips.

Freedom is life's great lie, Loki thinks to himself as the oaf takes his departure. He averts his eyes as he departs, for he cannot possibly stand to stare at the creature that once was a brother but certainly is no longer. Loki smiles and the muzzle pulls at his skin, pulling at cracked skin and he can taste blood, can feel it as it seeps into his mouth.

This is madness, Loki concedes. This is suffocating silence and solitude. This is mischief gone too far, this is disintegration and defiance and inevitability, yet this is the closest that Loki has, and ever shall have, to a state of peace. He mightn't be in possession of a heart or a soul, but worth have they when all they have brought Loki is misfortune. The Lord of Chaos is in possession of a much more powerful weapon, and that is Madness.

And this Madness shall inevitably lead to such glorious mayhem.

* * *

A/N: Thank you for all the lovely feedback! I truly appreciate it. Also, for those of you who might be worried, Sigyn will be featuring soon. Enjoy! :)


	3. Resentment and Reckoning

**DISCLAIMER: No copyright infringement intended. All Rights Reserved. I make the occasional reference to the movie Thor, The Avengers, and various comics including Loki and Thor, but I make no claim. I own nothing.**

* * *

Morning dawns darkly.

As it arrives, it brings with it sweet promises for mischief.

There are no boundless blue skies, no sounds of joyous chirpings that signal the awakening of early rising creatures of various kinds, and there are no faces, no words, no light, no life; all that dwells here in this cage, in this cesspit of betrayal and vengeance, is darkness and death.

_I remember a shadow, living in the shade of your greatness._

There are no sounds, no cries escape the lips of he who is condemned, no sorrowful screams echo throughout the House of Odin on this still and silent morning – but there is always the morrow – and Loki finds pleasure in knowing that it would horrify and astound all to know what it is that is left unheard, unspoken, unuttered, and what hidden horrors lurk in the crevices of his mind.

Evil whispers in Loki's ear, death brushes against him, taunts him torments him as it always does, and causes him to stir in his still sleep ridden state before he snaps upright and awakens completely; he moves, with a small degree of difficulty, to the very edge of the wrought iron bed.

Loki's entire being aches; his limbs feel rusted, as though they have not been used in years, his bones feel weakened and breakable, and he despises that has allowed himself to fall into such a state of vulnerability.

Not only can he smell blood, but he can taste it, too.

He watches on, in a mix of horror and amusement, as blood begins to run down the walls of his cage; he feels it, as it trickles down his skin, tickles his lips, quenches his thirst. But, as he stands and reaches forward for a stone; his hand is not engulfed with blood, as it should be.

The blood vanishes, as though it had never existed in the first place, and Loki smiles at the familiarity, at the coincidence, between the blood and between the woeful tales of his plight.

As he steps back and away from the wall, he finds that he is most unsteady on his feet; he slumps against a wall, falls against it pathetically, and presses his left temple against the stone in an attempt to chill his strangely heated skin.

He will be summoned shortly, Loki has no doubt and no fear about that, and he will be brought forth to the Great Halls of Asgard where his presence is not merely requested or required but demanded.

There, Loki will be set to make a scene - he intends to and awaits it with great anticipation – and he will cause chaos, be the reason behind the beginnings of an argument, a riot, or, more simply, he will cause havoc and disorder through the means of mischief – a means which he regards to be most meager means of manipulation when he compares them with that of madness, but he supposes they will suffice – and he will do so through his words, with his spite, his resolve, his unwavering disdain and determination.

In order to delay his trial, and ultimately postpone the decision of The Court, Loki must send all who are present into a state of complete and utter distress; he will cause chaos and conflict, and he will watch upon this sweet sight with great pleasure – as though it were a play, or a show staged just for the Lord of Chaos' entertainment – and he will laugh as they lock him back up in his cage, just where he wishes to be.

* * *

_It's an impressive cage._

Loki stews in the darkness for an immeasurable amount of time.

_Not built, I think, for me._

But this cage, this cesspit of darkness and desolation, where the sky hovers just above and away from where Loki has been exiled to, was built precisely for one of such callousness as Loki; it was built to taunt him, torture him, tear him down and teach him.

He will not crumble, he will not crack and change as they wish for him to, for this Loki is the true Loki; he has not been conjured up by magic, but by a hatred so vindictive and vicious that it brought hundreds to their knees.

The cage of which Loki has been exiled to is suddenly, and unexpectedly, engrossed in the light of two flaming torches; a cruel, taunting remark immediately rises to the bitter tip of Loki's tongue, as he believes it to be the brash Thor, who is the only would foolish enough to return to Loki's side following such a heated quarrel.

But, before Loki is able to spit venomous words of hatred and snarl at Thor, he is suddenly stricken by two silencing thoughts; he still wears the muzzle, which serves to silence him and has become quite he hindrance and inconvenience, and it is not the ignorant and dimwitted oaf who dares to venture back into the darkness.

Instead, it is an older man, with a greying beard and a weary face, who is accompanied by two young guards, with broad shoulders and belittling expressions; the guard to the left snickers at the sight of Loki, as he is crouched down low on the ground, like an animal cowering in the corner.

The faintness that unexpectedly overcame him brought him down to the ground earlier, despite his resolve to not appear as though he was weakened or vulnerable, and he has yet to acquire the appropriate strength required to stand tall and strong before his adversaries.

From Loki's lips comes no words, no taunts, no challenges for the brute, but from his cruel and cold eyes comes a dare for the guard to so much as speak an ill word about the Dark Prince of Asgard.

_Oh, I've heard, the mindless beast; makes play he's still a man._

"Just as savage as I imagined it to be." The guard snickers, and Loki wishes to sever his tongue for such inexcusable insolence and arrogance.

The guard towards the right raises his torch higher, as though to catch a better glimpse of this filthy and ferocious savage, which he would have only heard whisperings about, in the furthest corner of the cell; this guard is the brawnier of the two, he has olive skin, brown eyes, and golden hair that distinctly reminds Loki of Thor.

This reminder, of the accursed Thor in all of his golden glory, is enough to bring Loki to his feet; he wishes to snicker at this thought, to laugh aloud at the very idea that Loki is the one to rise in the face of his adversaries when all the deplorable earthlings did was kneel.

"Look at it," The golden haired guard spits, "Cowering in the corner, like the beast that it is." he adds, and his brown eyes watch Loki with contempt and disgust.

Loki has no choice but to rise from the darkness and raises his chin towards the man, in what is almost childlike defiance, and he asserts his superiority with such a simple gesture as tilting his chin upwards to the brute.

"Know your place, beast." he warns Loki – the one who reminds him so dearly of the beloved Thor – and Loki only wishes that he was not silenced by his muzzle, for he can think of plentiful promises to threaten and taunt the impertinent guard with.

Loki merely looks upon the guard with amusement, enjoyment, and he is pleased that he has been brought such entertainment; for in this solitude, he has been barren of it. But, this has all been altered, for that entertainment for which he has long sought out has barged straight into his cage and is setting the scene for quite an exciting play.

Loki only wishes that he was free of his muzzle so he could growl at the impertinent and insolent excuse for a Royal Guard. Instead, he settles for a second thought, another entertaining and amusing option, which emerges from the darkness and into his thoughts.

"Know your place!" he demands, a second time, his faux confidence wavering.

Loki mock bows, bends at the knees, puts one leg behind the other, and extends his arms as far as they can – which is not particularly far, considering that his wrists are still bound in the chains that he was brought back to Asgard in, but it is far enough – and he ducks his head, as though in a show of submission or a sign of servitude to the guard.

He can only imagine what such a sight must look Loki – for he still wears his golden and green armory – and the thought alone, of a prince in such green and golden glory bowing to a guard, is enough to cause a smile to spread across his lips, which are still bound by the muzzle, but even this pain does not deter him from his enjoyment in such a thought.

The guard does not respond kindly to such a display of obvious mockery – Loki's eyes are aflame with it – and he responds violently. He steps forward, just how Loki prophesized he would do, just how he hoped, and he raises the back of his hand to Loki; force of the hit causes the Dark Prince of Asgard to collide harshly against the wall, his skull smashing against the bricks, before he falls to the ground.

Loki sits up slowly, his chest heaves heavily with anger, with an uncontrollable hatred and a need for vengeance, but he manages to restrain himself and refrain from indulging his need for decimation, his desire, and instead he settles for saving that indulgence for later when he can properly savor it.

He has weakened greatly in his time back at Asgard, and blood trickles easily down his right temple from where he collided with the stone wall; this time of isolation, of solitude and darkness, has been brief but it has been somewhat successful in wearing down his strengths.

Loki cannot fathom why he would fall so easily, why he has been weakened so, and he surmises that it must be the Allfather's doing; when he stripped Loki of his magical abilities, perhaps he also stripped him of his strengths.

_The mindless beast,_

The Dark Prince of Asgard has a change of heart; he decides that this guard, this arrogant and impudent brute of a thing, will be the one who shall die and not the guard who first spoke, who snickered at the sight of Loki, but the second guard who spat words of disgust and dominance in Loki's direction and dared to presume he could lay a hand on Loki.

_Makes play he's still a man._

Loki supposes that he is a beast, an untamed animal, a sadistic savage, and he decides that he ought not to act as though he is civilized when clearly he is not. He is not a man; he is a god; a god of Mischief, Mayhem, Chaos, and a Lord of Darkness.

It is then that the elderly man steps forward; or, more appropriately, he is shoved forward. The way that he is pushed suggests that it is almost in a sacrificial manner, as though the gallant guards are still fearful of Loki, regardless of their displays of fearlessness and arrogance, and they push the elder forward, so if harm is to come to any it will be first to him.

A flash of something – pity, perhaps – passes through Loki, as he looks upon the elderly man – who Loki now identities to be an elder Healer, who crouches before him, cautiously and somewhat fearfully, before he reaches out to assist Loki to his feet.

Loki almost pities the elder, almost pities the fear that is raw in his eyes, which are as green as emeralds, but then he simply ceases to feel; because to feel is to allow weakness, to possess a vulnerability, and pity is a vulnerability.

If one possess pity, then another shall gladly, and heedlessly, take advantage of that pity and manipulate it to their advantage; Loki should know, he has done so on countless occasions.

Loki rejects the offer, by recoiling away from the touch and standing abruptly; he does move with slight difficulty, another puzzling occurrence, but he moves regardless of the sharp pain that stabs into him as he stands.

"Tend to the beast, old man." The golden haired guard, who Loki has dubbed Brutus for his brutish behavior and his brutality, barks harshly. "Were those not the orders?" he prompts, when the elder fails to move, and that is when Loki looks down and sees the sack, which is slung of the elder's shoulder, which undoubtedly contains various medical apparatuses.

Brutus steps forward, and this is enough to cause the elder to flinch; Loki fights the urge to defy the guard once more, to defend the elder with emerald eyes, because he is not Thor, he is not a protector, he is a destroyer and a bringer of Chaos.

Loki has not felt the need, the desire, or the want to protect, to care, to serve – any other but himself, and his purpose – and he cannot recall when he last felt a shred of humanity, a shred of decency, a shred of life, but he cannot allow himself to dwell on such lost, overrated and false notions.

The elder ushers for Loki to take a seat on the wrought iron bed, which he barely rested upon the following evening, and he proceeds to set out various items upon the bolted down table in the center of the cell.

Brutus and the smaller guard, the less significant guard, the less demeaning guard, less demanding, still stand at attention; eyes wide and watching Loki, observing with an equal measure of fear and disgust, moving every so often to watch the movements of the emerald eyed man.

Loki's glare is unwavering as he stares the guards down, almost savagely, from where he is seated in the further corner of the cell; the sun is yet to rise, but that is not the light that catches on an object on the table.

The glorious golden light from Brutus' torch flickers and the light catches on a small, serrated blade that sits on the iron table. _How glorious, indeed_, Loki thinks to himself, and he barely suppresses a smile; but he is more subtle than that, to blatantly stare at the weapon with a wild smirk in place, as this would be an indicator to his true intentions, and he has grown and learnt to be more careful in his advances.

Loki surmises that the blade is to be used to severe his hair – as it has grown wild, unkempt, and untamable during his absence – and he also deduces that such a blade could hardly be perceived as a weapon, due to his measly size, and that it would not usually have been selected to trim hair but it would have been deemed one of the safer options, what with such a savage as Loki involved.

Oh, how Odin should have known better.

* * *

"May I remove it?" The healer enquires, some time later, after he has examined the wounds and their severity, to which the Royal Guards look between each other before they turn to respond; an abrupt nod, curt yet cautious, from the unnamed guard, all the while Brutus stares Loki down.

Most would perceive such an act as brave, to dare to stare into the eyes of such a savage, but Loki merely deems the man to be as daft as the blessed Thor. He is rash, unthinking, and he moves with physical might but Loki shall dominate him, as he does and continue to do so with Thor, with his mind.

The healer turns towards Loki, his hands shake, ever so slightly, and Loki holds his breath in anticipation as he feels the healer fumbling with the intricate clasps and locks that keep the muzzle firmly in place; a design that has no doubt been designed just for the Dark Prince himself.

As the muzzle is pulled away, Loki exhales quietly through his nose; he is hesitant to part his lips, for fear that he may not be able to refrain from growling and hissing at Brutus, and for fear that he may sound as weak as he feels.

Weakness is vulnerability, and Loki will not be vulnerable; to be vulnerable is to be liable, and he cannot afford to possess any sort of liabilities, not at such a vital stage in his glorious path.

Loki knows that there is blood on his lips, he can smell it, and he can tell by the expression of horror plastered on the guard's face; whereas Brutus is not horrified, instead he is disgusted, and Loki cannot recall feeling such delight, aside from when he torments Thor and sickens Odin, and he relishes in such a feeling.

Loki swallows, his throat feels raw, and, as he licks at the corners of his lips, the saliva stings the cuts that adorn his lips. He knows how it must appear for all others who currently inhabit the cell, it would appear as though Loki is relishing in the taste of the blood, but he is simply wetting his lips for they are so dry that they bleed.

"Animal." Brutus spits, his words tinged with disgust and Loki would not wish for it to be any other way. Brutus has sealed his fate, following his entry and his display of insolence and arrogance, and Loki will enjoy watching as Brutus fulfills his destiny.

Just to humor himself, and to watch as their faces contort with further horror and disgust, Loki licks slowly across his bottom lip, across the blood, and although it is dried and he cannot remove it, only taste it, he achieves what he had hoped; the two guards appear as though they are going to be ill, and this has been caused by having to play witness to such a gruesome sight.

The elder appears, and he does not seem to have taken notice of such a sight – if he has he says not a word, conveys not a single emotion on the matter – and he simply starts to tend to Loki, to tend to the wounds that adorn his skin.

He heals, without the use of many of the medical items but with magic, the cut that Loki sustained on his temple, the various scrapes and indentations on his lips, and the scratches on Loki's wrists from the chains, from where he struggled with them and slipped them down so that they might scratch against his skin, and then he steps away.

Loki is puzzled that, after the healer closes the wounds, heals them, he leaves the scars, he does not remove them with his magic – a thing of which Loki presumes the elder would be most capable of doing – and, instead, he reaches forth for serrated blade and slowly turns back towards Loki.

Once he has reached Loki's side, he has no qualms about reaching out and tilting Loki's head to the side – the smaller guard draws in a sharp breathe, as though touching the beast would be fatal, for Loki's skin must be toxic, his sickness must be contagious, and Loki smiles a small and amused smile – and he proceeds to bring the blade up to sever the hair.

"Should you not clean the blood first?" Loki asks, and is surprised as the words slip past his lips; this surprise is clearly contagious, for the guards are both stunned, practically shell shocked, by the sound of the animal's voice.

His words are raspy, weaker than what he would prefer, but they are not pathetically broken and pitiful. "My skin is stained with it," Loki reminds, and the healer pulls the blade back. "The Court should not wish to see such a sight, I would imagine." he remarks, sharply and with an amused smile.

The healer nods to himself, somewhat stunned himself at hearing the words of the animal, which sound somewhat reasonable and not at all savage like, as they attempt to reason with him. He places the blade down, on the corner of the iron table, and removes a flask from the sack, which is also on the table, and begins to pour the contents into a small bowl.

"I see that I have silenced you," Loki observes, as he turns his attention back towards the two guards; who grip their torches, and grip their belts, where their weapons are fastened to, simultaneously. "Are you surprised? Stunned at the sound of such reason resounding from such madness?"

The healer spares a brief glance of concern over his shoulder, in Loki's direction, as he continues on fiddling with the flask and the bowl, before he turns back and starts to search for a cloth.

Loki stands, slowly, with a dangerous smile in place, and the guards sense this danger for they grip their weapons tighter as Loki starts to approach them. "Stay back, beast." Brutus barks, and Loki wears a look of mock hurt.

"I was merely taking an interest here in the work of a healer," Loki states, as he stands by the edge of the table; his hands are still bound, but that does not stop him from running a finger across the edge of the serrated blade that is positioned on the corner of the iron table.

It is now that the healer realizes his mistake, for he looks up, fretfully and fearfully, at Loki, from where he stands with the cloth and bowl in hand. "It is not a frequent thing for an elder to grace you with their presence, and I merely wish to…take advantage of such a rare situation."

The guards cannot see from where they stand that Loki is tracing the edge of blade; for his figure blocks their view, and they are unable to see just what it is that he is referring to when he states 'taking advantage of such a rare situation', for it will not be a frequent thing that Loki is graced with the company of multiple others and the means to remove those others.

"Tell me…" Loki begins, and his voice is a low hum as he slips the blade from the table and conceals it by turning his hand upwards, inwards, and hiding it under the green material of his sleeve. "How _does_ it feel? To be cowering in the corner, like the cowards that you are?" he asks, with a genuine curiosity to his voice, and this deeply angers Brutus but seems to frighten the other guard.

"Know your place!" Brutus barks, blood rushing to his face as he discards his torch to the floor and arms himself.

"Oh, I know my place." Loki smirks. "But do you know yours? For you are only a guard, and I—"

"You are a beast!" Brutus tells Loki, to which Loki is not deterred, he barely hears the remark, but it is the next string of spiteful words that snatch Loki's attention. "You have betrayed Asgard, and you are no Prince. You are a pitiful excuse for a—"

"Watch your tongue," Loki snarls, as he seizes Brutus by the throat and slams him harshly against the cell wall. He is not yet strong enough to be physically dominant, but the blade that he presses against Brutus' neck is enough to hold the guard in place. "Or I shall sever it for such insolence."

Brutus shifts underneath the metal, but otherwise remains still and silent; his eyes fixed on Loki's, and he is not surprised but rather horrified to find nothing there, nothing whatsoever but an endless pit of darkness and evil.

"Do you know your place now?" Loki asks quietly, as he runs the blade across the underside of Brutus' jaw. "Do you?! You are a pitiful excuse for a Royal Guard!" he spits, before he says, with a small degree of disgust and a high dose of amusement, "You call yourself a guardian of Asgard, and yet you are no better than a beast…"

Loki presses the blade in, against Brutus' throat, as his eyes catch upon his golden hair which glistens in the light of the other guard's torch, "You call yourself a Prince," Brutus manages to get out, "But you are no better than a frostgiant."

Loki spares not another word for the insolent brute, and instead moves with quick and unanticipated movements.

Before the other guard can comprehend, or react, Loki violently grabs Brutus' tongue and does just what he promised; he severs the guard's tongue, he allows for Brutus to stew in that severe pain for several moments, before he slits the guard's throat and tosses the blade to the floor and towards the direction of the iron bed.

Loki towards the remaining guard and throwing his shackles, so that they fall behind the back of his neck, before pulling him closer and twisting the chains, so that he starts choking the guard.

"I sincerely hope that I did not disappoint your imagination." Loki murmurs, and he knows that Heimdall would have taken notice of such an event unraveling in the cell – for his eyes would be trained intently upon the Dark Prince, they would have been so since his arrival back at Asgard, and now he would undoubtedly be alerting Odin and be sending reinforcements.

The guard struggles, and Loki tightens his chains, "Tell me, am I as savage as you imagined me to be?" Loki queries, and watches as the life slowly starts to slip from the guard. Brutus gurgles up blood behind Loki, from where he slid down the wall and collapsed to the stones beneath him, and Loki knows that this was all part of his glorious purpose.

"One can only hope." Loki smiles, and then the life is gone from the guard. He falls, limp and lifelessly, down to the floor; Loki untangles his chains, turns back towards Brutus and crouches down beside him.

The Dark Prince can hear the footsteps racing towards the cell, much like the rolling of thunder, and he knows that he will only have a few moments left with the brute.

Loki, who is no son of Laufey and no son of Odin, knows his fate; he welcomes it, embraces it, sees and feels no reason to fear it. It will do him well, serve him as it should, but chance is not a thing that has brought or ever will bring about the chaos that Loki wishes to see befall the Nine Realms.

Brutus looks up at him, with something like fear, almost childlike fear, and a flash of something floods throughout Loki; but he forces himself not to feel, as he watches the life start to fade from Brutus; the guard stares up, almost defiantly, despite the blood spilling from him and the spluttering sounds that resound throughout the cell. "This is your fate." Loki reminds him.

A crash behind Loki reminds the Lord of Chaos that he is not alone, that the elder is still present, and as he rises and swiftly turns around and towards the healer he decides that he will spare the life of one, for now, for if there are no witnesses then who will live to tell the tale?

"You may keep your life, healer, you need not fret for it just yet." Loki declares, but that does not stop the healer from retreating away from the bloodthirsty beast who takes slow and determined steps towards him.

It is then that the guards burst in, the door slamming open loudly, and in pours a countless number of armor-clad guards in golden uniforms, bearing weapons that glint off of the flames which have long fallen to the floor, the flames that are dimming, fading by the second, and Loki is delighted by such a display.

"I am Loki," Loki declares loudly, watching on in delight as the guards take in the gory scene before them; the stench of death is overwhelming, and blood trickles freely across the floor as they pile into the cell. "Lord of Chaos, maker of Mischief, manipulator of Madness, and son of Darkness."

The guards are not kind, nor are they following orders, as they extract upon Loki the revenge that he so direly hoped that they would. He can only imagine what orders they must be going against, and what punishment, if any, Odin will place down upon them; they are violent and vicious, equally angered and sickened by Loki's display of madness, and they are relentless.

By the end of the beating, Loki sees that he has bled more than Brutus did – which is quite remarkable, considering how the blood spilled freely, easily, plentifully, from the slit across his neck – but he does not look up at the guards with fear, instead he fixes on a face that is devoid of any emotion whatsoever.

The beating is done in haste, for Heimdall would, despite the disgust that he undoubtedly feels towards Loki, object to such an occurrence. Odin would, regardless of the ire he holds for Loki, be furious if Heimdall were to be so ignorant, and allow such a scene to slip past his sight, and he would reprimand the watcher if such a thing were to occur.

Loki is collapsed on the floor, in a pool of his own blood, and he is too beaten and too weakened to wonder just why it is that he bleeds so freely and so easily; he is a god, and yet he bleeds like a mere man would.

The bodies of the two guards are removed, but the blood is left behind; the healer had fled, he had been told to leave after the guards arrived, and that was when they had shut the door sharply and started to encircle Loki.

He will kill each and every one of them, eventually, but for now, as the blood starts to trickle down his forehead and into his eyes, he is forced to postpone his vengeance and instead focus on anything else but the pestering pain that is slowly consuming his body; it is bearable, in comparison to unspoken and unknown sufferings that he endured, after his fall from the bifrost, but it is a pesky and persistent pain that distracts his mind from his glorious purpose and leaves him somewhat vulnerable.

Loki's eyelids fall shut, despite his insistence to keep them open, and he faintly recalls seeing a figure emerge into the cell before they fall shut once again; he must be dreaming some sort of strange, peculiar dream, for he swears that he can feel a warm hand presses against his skin.

He almost leans into the touch, almost tries to take that warmth, keep it for himself, save it for later and then savor it slowly, but then he is reminded that there is no warmth, not where he has gone, not from where he has fallen down into, and he realizes that it is not a dream but it is in fact reality.

There is a figure before him, and as he opens his eyes slowly he sees that it is woman, with emerald green eyes and hair as black as the darkness that he has become.

He cannot see her features clearly, but he can see the blurry outline of her locks and the striking green of her eyes as they watch him closely, intently, and he is puzzled, to say the least.

Loki starts to sit up, but he is pushed back down by a hand on his chest; he is not used to such contact, he has not felt the touch of another in an immeasurable amount of time, and this is enough to spark some sense and some life back in Loki. "Who are you?" he asks, and he does not like the weakness to his voice, the weariness, and he tries to clear his throat but finds that it is thickened with blood.

"What is your name?" he queries, before he coughs harshly, raising a shackled hand to his mouth, and once he takes his hand away he sees, through blurry eyes, the rich red blood that is in his palm. "Speak!" he demands harshly, and he prefers this harshness to his earlier weakness.

"My name is Sigyn," The voice says, her voice sweet and soothing.

"What is your purpose, Sigyn?" Loki questions, and she pulls her hand away from his skin.

"My purpose is to take care of you, my prince." Sigyn states, and ducks her head.

Loki allows for the darkness to consume him, at that point, for he deduces that he must be delirious and deluding himself into believing that one has been sent to tend to him. He will venture further into the dark cesspit of his mind, as that is what is required, if his plan is to have any sort of chance of success.

He supposes that he could leave it to fate, chance, or luck; but he has never had such luck, and does not believe in such a thing as chance. Fate, however, is another thing entirely. Some may argue that fate and chance are one in the same, or consist of striking similarities, but Loki is in strong disagreement over such a statement.

Fate is long decided, long sealed, unbreakable and ultimately unchangeable. Fate is long determined by each passing moment, by each decision, by each breath, but chance is a trivial thing when compared to such a powerful thing as fate.

Chance is changeable, questionable, and unlike the forceful power of fate.

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**A:N/ I have been incredibly tardy in my updates, and for that I apologize! They will be more frequent henceforth, and I hope there are still one or two of you who are still interested by this story.**

**Thank you for taking the time to read this, I truly appreciate it.**

**P.S Sorry for any spelling errors! It was late when I wrote this. Let me know if you find any, and I will fix them.  
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	4. Idiocy and Ingenuity

**DISCLAIMER: **No copyright infringement intended. All Rights Reserved. I make the occasional reference to the movie Thor, The Avengers, and various comics including Loki and Thor, but I make no claim. Unfortunately, I own nothing.

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A melodic voice, a soft voice that is almost enchanting, echoes throughout Loki's mind as he slowly begins to wake from his slumber. He had succumbed to the darkness, an immeasurable amount of time earlier, for it is sweeter there, it is desolate and distant, and far away from all whom he wishes to see fall and all who wish to see him perish.

_My name is Sigyn,_ a voice told him softly, and he was not accustomed to such displays of kindness, of fondness, of sweetness, and he was immediately suspicious of the being; he was suspicious as to whether or not she was a concoction, an illusion or creation, of his own mind's making, or if she was sent on behalf of the Allfather.

_What is your purpose, Sigyn?_ Loki had queried, and she had replied softly, bluntly, as though there were no intricacies to the query, as though it was purely one dimensional, and she need not consider the complexities of such an inquiry.

_My purpose is to take care of you, my prince, _Sigyn had stated, ducking her head as she did, and he was too weakened to watch her, to discover whether she was being deceitful or truthful, and as he submerged into the darkness he spared not a single thought for her, but as he begins to wake his thoughts strangely surround her.

Loki opens his eyes slowly, languidly, for that is the best that he can manage – what with the heaviness to them – and he finds that he is resting upon the iron bed in the far corner of the room, and not the cold, uneven stones, upon which he had collapsed on, following his brutal beating, he is mildly perplexed and somewhat intrigued as to how he came to be here.

He blinks thrice, harshly to clear his eyes, and as they focus upon his surroundings he sees the blur of a figure, an outline, and then a face, fair skin, eyes that are fiercely green, and a small frown as that figure take a seat on the very edge of Loki's bedside.

Loki feels most inclined to move, to shift away from the stranger, to spit venomous words and chide them for presuming that they are entitled to be in such close quarters to a Prince of Asgard, but as he parts his lips to speak he discovers that he has, strangely enough, not quite healed from the brutal beating that was inflicted upon him.

He attempts to move with haste, with indignation and disbelief at the condemnable actions of the guards, but he is unable to; while he is not bound to the bed, he is weighed down by his own body. His entire being feels heavy, as though there are indeed a thousand shackles upon him, holding him in place, but when he looks down upon his hands he sees naught but one.

"How—" he rasps out, and silently scolds himself for such a display of vulnerability, of weakness, and the figure flutters away immediately – upon hearing the rough, dry rasp of his words – to retrieve items that are intended to soothe his suffering.

But his very soul is suffering, and such an ache cannot, and shall never be, soothed, and so he refuses to allow for his body to be tended to – for he cares only for his mind, and, although the madness claimed his mind long ago, it is still intact – and he will not allow himself to appear as weak, and in need of tending to.

"You must drink, my prince." Sigyn – he presumes that is her name – gently commands, once she is returned, but he is not one to be commanded, he will not stand to be ordered around, especially by a servant, a subordinate, and he almost snickers at her request.

"Surely you mustn't be so foolish as to presume that you are in a position of power, to assume that you hold authority of me?" Loki snickers, the rasp to his voice is akin to the sound of a low growl escaping from an untamed beast, and his lips turn up into the sharp curve of a smile as he sharply states, "For you would be sorely mistaken"

Loki's eyes, like two chips of ice, slice straight throughout Sigyn; he presses his lips tightly together - so tightly that the color remaining in them fades, until they are almost white - in a smile of triumph, for he feels victorious for having seemingly silenced her, frightened her, and scared her off within just mere moments of awakening.

It is only then, once the sharp words have escaped from his lips, does Loki notice that he and Sigyn are not as entirely alone as he perceived them to be; he is surprised, and somewhat delighted, to see not one, not two, but four armoured guards lined up by the far wall of his cell.

The stench of blood is still ripe within the cell, Loki presumes that the reminder of his callous acts has been deliberately left behind, so that he may look upon the stains and perhaps feel a fragment of remorse towards his deliberate actions, but all that he feels that he looks upon the stains is a sense of accomplishment, for he has succeeded in isolating himself, succeeding in retaining time, time to further delve into the darkness, madness, and properly prepare the chaos.

But Sigyn is not frightened – for some peculiar, unfathomable reason, she is almost intrigued by the prince – and even though she should loathe the prince, even though she should be horrified by the very sight of him, disgusted by the sound of him, she is not, for reasons that have not yet unraveled themselves.

She is not frightened, for she has witnessed sights that were much more sinister than that of a prince turned prisoner, who spits arrogant words and feels the incessant need to reassert his authority over those whom he dubs inferior.

"You must drink this, my prince." Sigyn defiantly repeats, and she catches sight of the humorous disbelief – if there were ever such a thing – in his eyes, it is as though he finds humor in her defiance, her persistence, but he is also in mild disbelief over her disobedience and her blatant disregard of his previous statement.

"You dare mock me?" Loki snarls, the annoyance he feels towards her, and her disregard of his words as though he were no more than the incoherent slurs of a drunkard, overrides the initial humor he felt towards her display of what she would mistakenly believe to be bravery.

"No, my prince, I would never." Sigyn is quick to amend her apparent error.

The guards shift silently, their attention caught upon the snarling savage in the far corner of the room, and while he has no weapons concealed on him, and the items that the Healer brought with her were thoroughly checked.

There is an unspoken fear felt within each of the guards; for they do no doubt that it is within his capabilities to fashion a weapon out of what would appear to be a seemingly harmless item, and, if no items were available, they do not doubt that the beast would resort to using his shackles – as he once has – or his bare hands.

Loki struggles to sit up; his entire body aches as he shifts, it screams at him to cease his movements, but he persists. When Sigyn reaches forward, in a thoughtless act that shows she intends to attempt to assist him, he growls at her, and this deters her for the moment.

Sigyn knows that, much to Loki's disinclination towards being tended to and his unanticipated aversion towards her, she must tend to the prince eventually, for that it is her purpose, it was the burdensome duty that she was tasked with, and it is now that she sees that this will not be a simple task to complete that shall be easily completed.

"How foolish the Allfather has grown in my absence." Loki remarks, with a certain degree of difficulty, for his throat and mouth are both still incredibly, and almost painfully, dry – with the exception of the blood that he can taste as he swallows, the blood that is always prominent, but even that cannot quench his current thirst – and his jaw aches, from the countless number of hits that he sustained.

Loki smirks – even though Sigyn holds no allure, no attraction, no appeal, for Loki, for he has never been captivated by beautiful things – and his eyes roam across her figure as she stands, and turns towards her supplies that are neatly set out upon the table, "How foolish, indeed."

Each guard watches him closely, intently, as they almost anxiously await the chaos that they fear is coming, but one guard in particular takes note of how Loki scrutinizes Sigyn; but this anxiousness is concealed by stoic expression, and it is overridden by a sense of hatred that he, much like the other guards, feel towards the savage.

Loki's eyes roam from Sigyn's raven black hair, which is pulled back neatly into an intricate braid – with the exception of a few stray strands, that dance around her fair face – and his eyes continue downwards, down her back, past the curves of her dress, continuing on beyond the ribbons and knots - that keep the ashen fabric of her dress together – at her lower back, and down to the very shoes on her nimble feet.

To further emphasize his point – although, he is certain that he has practically spelled out his intentions – he drags his dry tongue across the cracked, bruised, bloodstained skin of his bottom lip, as he continues to watch Sigyn's swift movements, and his smile widens – in triumph – as he sees the guard recoil in disgust, for he knows precisely what Loki is hinting at.

The ashen dress not compliment her fair skin, nor her eyes, nor her hair, but Loki does not dwell on these thoughts for long; for they are trivial, inconsequential thoughts, not worth the time he spent dwelling on them.

"Tell me, sweet servant of Asgard," Loki drawls, as Sigyn returns; she has replaced the goblet in her delicate hands for a bowl, which contains some sort of pallid substance, and a spoon.

While he is in dire need of nourishment – that much is evident in the frailness of his hidden frame – but he possesses no hunger, not for food, anyhow, but instead he possesses a ravenous hunger for retribution, chaos, mischief, madness, and a thirst for blood that cannot be satiated.

"How is it that such a maiden," he continues, as Sigyn scoops up a spoonful of that pasty substance, "As fair as you, has been sent to aid the likes of me?" he queries, with all the charm a prince should possess, with a smile that could set hearts swooning – were it not for the blood that stains his lips, his teeth, the corner of his mouth – and there is moment of hesitation on her half.

There is a moment, an extremely brief one but it is a moment nonetheless, of confusion, in which Sigyn's eyes are clouded, and a slight frown forms on her brows, before she simply watches him with silent curiosity.

Her eyes are wide with it, she knows this, she is certain that he would have taken note of such an obvious expression of emotion – perhaps he would have interpreted it as fear, thus the reason for her wide eyes, but he is the one who is sorely mistaken – and she silently scolds herself, and forces her features to recompose into an expression of impassiveness.

"You must eat this, my prince." Sigyn states, and offers the spoon to Loki.

Loki presses his lips tightly together, into yet another amused smile, but there is no amusement in those eyes of his; something flickers within them, something darker, more sinister, but Sigyn is not nearly as unnerved by that unwavering glare as expected, as anyone sane would be.

"The safety of Asgard – of all the Nine Realms – hangs precariously in the balance, it dangles in the darkness, in the unknown," Loki muses, with a great degree of malice to his words, "And yet you tend to a wounded beast as though he were a man, as though he were deserving of it? I am deserving of much, but compassion is not among the many."

"A wounded beast is still wounded." Sigyn declares.

"A wounded beast is still wounded," Loki concedes, this acknowledgment is accompanied with an abrupt nod, before he says, so explicitly that it cannot be anything else other than an obvious warning for Sigyn, "But you mustn't forget that it is still indeed a beast."

When she looks upon Loki, and sees the blood that adorns his skin, the bruises, the countless cuts, she is certain that none should forget that he is indeed a beast. When he parts his lips and smiles that feral smile, teeth bared and lip curled into a vicious snarl, she knows undoubtedly that none should forget that he is a beast.

"You must eat this, my prince." Sigyn announces, for a second time.

Loki is surprised by her patience, but he is not impressed by it; for he has had to be patient, he was forced into the shadows, to wait until his day of glory would arrive, and he must continue to be patient on his path to the completion of his glorious purpose.

"I insist." she adds, and something within Loki ignites.

"Your insistences are _infuriating_." he snarls, enunciating each word slowly, as one of his shackled hands snatches hers by the wrist, causing the spoon to fall to the stone floor. "But they are not mere insistences, are they? They are commands, orders, not simple suggestions, and you spit them as though you are superior to me."

The guard's reactions are faultless – for this Loki is slightly disappointed, for he had wished to watch them fret and fumble foolishly - and they had already readied their weapons, at the sound of Loki's snarls, and are readily prepared to intervene.

Sigyn does not recoil, she does not fidget in an attempt to evade his hold, nor does she fret for herself; this is perplexing, and slightly frustrating, for Loki, who – while he may have weakened greatly, for reasons he has yet to dwell on – is significantly stronger than her.

Her presence and presumed position of authority is infuriating, but her silence is maddeningly infuriating; Loki ruthlessly reprimands her for her ignorance, foolishness, and then her silence.

"Surely you mustn't be so senseless to have already forgotten our former discussion regarding positions of assumed authority, presumed power, and the differences between that and _real_ power?" Loki queries quickly, his sharp words slicing together, but Sigyn barely seems to notice the venom within his words, or the feral glint that has returned to his eyes, and if she has noticed it she is seemingly unaffected by it.

Loki is, for undecipherable reasons, infuriated with Sigyn – whom he has presumed to be a Healer, because otherwise he cannot deduce why she would be present, to tend to him, if that was not so – and he cannot fathom why she has ignited such ferocity within him, when all she did was suggest remedies that would assist in remedying him of his current discomfort.

"Do you not have a voice?!" Loki enquires harshly, his grip on her wrist tightens; this causes her to writhe, almost uncomfortably, underneath the pressure of which he is applying – it is almost painful, but not quite when she compares it to other injuries she has received – and he is, for yet another unfathomable reason, almost joyful at the sign of this.

He is almost joyful at seeing Sigyn exhibit natural emotions that are usually displayed when in his presence - fear that leads to stunned silence - because her inability to be stung, wounded, or offended by his words, was frankly unnerving; he is a beast, a sadistic savage, a dweller of the darkness, and she best start treating him so.

"You have a voice, do you not?" he continues his callous interrogation, his cruel eyes stare directly at her, with all the sharpness that one would expect from the edge of a blade, and the restraints on his madness slip ever so slightly as he promises her, "I won't hurt you if you speak, but I assure you that I will hurt you if you refuse."

"Yes, my prince, I do possess a voice." Sigyn replies softly, she spares a brief glance to the guards who stand so close to her, and yet they are too far away to be of any proper assistance.

"Miraculous." Loki remarks, the cruel line of his lips turns from a snarl and into a smile that is much too wide to be genuine, as he shakes his head – almost in disbelief – before he says, "You do possess a voice…and such a voice it is! I should wish to hear it frequently, if you would only abide. Tell me, sweet siren, how foolish has Odin grown in my absence?"

"Foolish?" Sigyn echoes the word, frowns as though it is of a foreign language, one that she does not understand, before she continues, "The Allfather has not grown foolish, my prince, but weary."

"Weary?" Loki laughs cruelly, before he asks, almost as though he is amused by the very notion that the Allfather has grown weary, "And what has caused the great and wise Odin to grow weary?"

"Your demise, my prince." Sigyn declares, causing Loki to falter briefly before he turns furious.

"He presumed me dead?" Loki queries, even though he knows this was so.

Loki concealed himself, hid in the darkness, disguised himself, and ensured that not even the great Gatekeeper could have discovered him. "Did he announce the news on the day of my presumed demise, or did he wait? I cannot imagine why he would, for such joyous news ought to be shared.

"My prince, you cannot truly believe that the Kingdom rejoiced your death."

"Tell me, Sigyn, did the Kingdom cry for me? Did Odin mourn me? Or did he rejoice my demise? Surely he was relieved to have such a hefty burden removed from his shoulders. I should imagine that he would be greatly relieved, for he would no longer need to bother with the _other_ son, the son who was not Thor, the son who would never suffice."

"You were mourned, my prince." Sigyn says, and the words are much too convenient for Loki's liking; she says only what she assumes that he wishes to hear, but now is not the time for these words – that time has long passed – and Loki will not be fed these falsehoods for a moment longer.

"Don't tell me you mourned me." Loki barks out a cruel laugh, and the manner in which Sigyn drops her eyes from his – ever so briefly – is indication enough that she did indeed mourn the loss of a Prince of Asgard. "Oh, you did." he snickers. "Did you mourn my mischievous ways? Surely Odin wouldn't have, nor Thor."

"I mourned the death of a Prince who died before his time, my prince."

"A prince who died before his time?" Loki repeats the statement, sounding venomous whereas Sigyn had sounded almost sorrowful, "And how did I die? Was I fatally wounded in glorious battle? It is unlikely, for are those not stories more suitable for the likes of Thor? What unfortunate demise was I doomed for?"

"You fell from the Bifrost, my prince." Sigyn tells Loki softly, and he is overcome with a stunned silence, "You were defending Asgard against the Frost Giant's," she continues, and Loki is aghast with disbelief. "And you were fatally wounded."

He had intended to obliterate Jotunheim, following his elaborate scheme of luring the Frost Giant's in – with promises to slay the great Allfather where he lay – and he would claim glory and ascend to his rightful position on the throne of Asgard by eliminating the enemy.

"Oh, how _foolish_ the Allfather has grown; if he were in possession of any sort of sense he would not have sent a delicate maiden to tend to a deranged monster!" Loki exclaims angrily, his grip on Sigyn's wrist tightens significantly as he wrenches her closer.

Loki bares his teeth, and leans in closely, to snarl against her ear, "And how delicate you are, indeed." he remarks, and he takes particular delight in the manner in which Sigyn fidgets – in feeble attempts to extricate herself from his hold – and the small sounds of protest she emits as she finds that her efforts are futile. "Delectable." he murmurs, and puts particular emphasis on the word, he draws it out slowly, painfully, so that it might cause her further discomfort.

"Please." Sigyn pleads, and Loki finds this most pitiful.

"How easily you crumble!" Loki observes, with a cruel snicker. "Look at how easily your Kingdom falls!" he shouts, as he releases his hold slightly; so that Sigyn may recoil, to see his face, to see the lunacy in his otherwise lifeless eyes, and see monster that her beloved Asgard, her beloved Allfather, has molded him into.

"I've not threatened you, nor have I caused you any sort of physical harm, and yet you are pleading for your life – one meager, meaningless life – and you are begging for it! You beg for one life; one tiny, miniscule, irrelevant life. Tell me, why do you beg for one life when countless others could be saved?"

Sigyn remains silent; Loki hadn't expected otherwise.

"Oh, such a selfish race you have become!" Loki proclaims, all the while his lips are parted in wide, amused smile; he smiles, and yet he spits such spiteful words, his words are swelling with such malevolence and contempt that it causes Sigyn's skin to crawl. "It is appalling to see how significantly you have regressed; a race once regarded as almighty is indeed no better than that of the deplorable race of Midgardian's."

The Lord of Chaos' cruel words of contempt and malice stun Sigyn into a silence; her lips are slightly parted, her eyes are alight with an unidentifiable emotion – for Sigyn, it is curiosity, but Loki would prefer to see it is fear – but aside from that her face is devoid of any sort of emotion that would indicate her current state of mind.

Sigyn does not whimper, nor does she plead – as she had previously done – as Loki pulls harshly on her wrist, tugging her forward, so that she is in the position that she had been in previously; she is perched on the very edge of the bed, beside Loki, so close to the prince that she can smell the stench of blood that his skin is stained with.

"You cannot hurt me with your words." Sigyn declares, and this surprises Loki.

He laughs – it's short and cruel sharp – before he reassures her that he can most definitely, and undoubtedly, harm her with his words; most would perceive them to be a meager excuse for a weapon, but they are most mighty and have proved to be highly successful in past endeavors.

Loki smiles as though he is experiencing the most joyous event of his existence, he smiles as though this single occurrence has caused him greater happiness than he has ever known, and Sigyn truly cannot fathom the idea that this man has experienced happiness, joy, or any such emotion at any such point throughout his life.

He leans in closely, so closely that all Sigyn may smell is the foul odor of blood, as he whispers, so softly, so quietly, so cordially, that it causes a shiver to crawl about her body, "Oh, how sorely mistaken you are, _servant_ of Asgard."

His words turn bitter and harsh as he emphasizes that single word, 'servant', as though he is reminding her of her place, as though she should know better, as though he is threatening to teach her better if she is refusing to learn, and he will gladly correct her and show her just how cruel words can be.

"One can fashion a weapon out of anything – words included – and all that is required is imagination." he whispers against her ear, his grip tightening on her delicate wrist as he snarls the next string of spiteful words, "A stray pebble, a tiny rock, can easily be concealed in the palm of my hand, because all you need is imagination…how easily it could be used to gauge out a pair of disapproving eyes."

Sigyn turns her head away; in a feeble attempt to escape his cruel words, to escape the savageness he is so carelessly displaying, but she knows that he shall not allow for her to escape from the madness, not when he is forever in encased in it.

"Or, to simplify matters, all one would need is a set of claws…" Loki murmurs, as he reminds her that he still possesses his hold on her, that he is superior to her, and so he digs his nails into the underside of her wrist until he is certain that he has drawn blood.

Sigyn hisses, as she feels the skin break and the blood begin to seep throughout the broken skin; it is not the most severe pain that she has experienced, but it is not the most pleasant feeling either.

"Or perhaps a pair of capable hands…" Loki muses, and he releases his hold on her wrist – much to Sigyn's relief – only to reaffirm his hold on her by taking hold of her delicate neck in his right hand – much to Sigyn's dismay – and he continues on regardless of the almost sorrowful look in her eyes, "How easily they could snap a neck."

Loki runs the tip of his thumb across the underside of her jaw, and watches as she remains frustratingly impassive – with the exception of her eyes – as he continues on his cruel tirade.

The guards, who had readied themselves, stand so close and yet they might as well be in Jotunheim for all the good that they can do; they are helpless, all their strength proves is useless, their weapons are worthless, for they possess no authority, no superiority, over Loki.

"And what say you, Asgardian? With all your strength and all your glory, you would not be susceptible to such meager weapons, would you? You would not be vulnerable? How is it then, I wonder, that I managed to slay an Asgardian guard with the tip of a jagged blade?" he queries, almost genuinely, almost as though he expects Sigyn to answer his requests, as he runs the pad of his thumb across the skin of her throat; pressing it in harshly, as though this will prompt her to speak, to react, but it does not.

"I suppose that he would have faced certain difficulty in continuing his existence, what without a tongue." Loki says, with a small snicker, before he releases his hold on her throat – to which she exhales a small sigh of relief – before he throws his chains, so that they settle behind her neck – as he had done with the guard – and she stiffens immediately.

Word had been told to her of his cruel escapades, of how he had killed the second guard with naught but the shackles that bound his bloodstained hands together, and the very thought of it paralyzes her movements, her breaths, her thoughts.

"And these chains…" Loki murmurs quietly, almost in an intimate manner – as though he is speaking to a lover – as he twists the chains, so that the shackles are crossed over, as he continues on slowly, dangerously, "They were used to choke the life from an _almighty_ Asgardian."

Sigyn draws in a sharp breath, as she peers down at the chains around her neck, before she slowly draws her gaze back up to the figure before her, the figure with a facial expression that is a mix of delight and another emotion that she cannot discern just yet.

"How peculiar it is," Loki continues, seemingly undeterred by her silence. "That what once appeared so almighty no longer does? That all that was golden has lost its shine? Those guards ready themselves with weapons that I have already rendered inadequate, and the only weapons I used was my madness and my words."

Loki does not tighten his hold, nor does he releases it, and he finds the lack of movement on the behalf of the guard's to be quite amusing; he had hoped that they would fail dismally in their attempts at bravery, for they are equally as detestable and as pathetic as the two previous guards of which he had gladly slain, and they have not disappointment his great hopes and expectations.

"Tell me, do my words harm you?" Loki queries quietly, his lips pressed together in a tight smile as he awaits her response, and when he is rewarded with naught but silence he carries on, teeth barred and eyes blazing, "Can you feel them etching their way into your mind, your thoughts, burrowing into your brain? Do they gnaw away at you? Erode at all you thought was good and pure? Do they fracture all your childish delusions about morality and ethics?"

"No." Sigyn replies simply, and her answer enrages Loki.

"What deludes you into believing that I won't ruin you?" Loki growls, as he tightens the chains, and watches Sigyn begins to squirm ever so slightly. "Who has fed you these falsehoods? Was it Odin? How foolish he has become!"

Sigyn continues to squirm, her free hand flies up to the chains as she feebly attempts to loosen the shackles, but Loki is undeterred by this sorrowful sight; the guards stand by helplessly, stupidly, uselessly, for Loki is to stand trial – there shall be no queries regarding that – and he must be alive to do so.

"Did he think that I would not spoil you?" Loki snarls.

There is a moment, in which Sigyn ceases to squirm and Loki ceases to seethe with madness and ire, and the two simply watch one another; Sigyn dares to delve deep within the eyes of the beast, the savage, the tyrant. Sigyn knows that while the wounded beast is still a beast, it was a man once, a maker of mischief and magic, a son of Odin and Frigga, a brother of Thor, and an Asgardian.

Loki untwists the chains, causing Sigyn to gasp loudly as she draws in a breath, but before he removes the chains entirely he tugs them forward, causing Sigyn to move with them, and her eyes are wide with confusion; she had presumed that he would not release her, that he would wish to make an example of her, and the guards, as he had done previously.

"If you would be so foolish as to return," Loki whispers, his voice a low warning in her ear, and she is stunned into a silence by merely knowing that he is releasing her, "Then I promise you that I will ruin you."

And with that last threat, that last spiteful snarl, that final ferocious warning, he lifts the shackles above her head, and shoots her a venomous look full of warning, to which she readily responds by standing and retreating as quickly as her slightly unsteady feet will take her.

Sigyn does not stop to retrieve her belongings, for she hastily is escorted by a guard, who guides her gently by her left elbow, and she spares a single glance over her shoulder to see that Loki almost looks remorseful; almost, and that moment is brief, a fleeting second, for he then proceeds to flash a smile, it is all teeth and blood and bitterness, and she turns away at once.

Loki has never been one to be mesmerized by melodic things, he is not one to be captivated by glitter or gold, beauty, while it holds a certain charm and allure, is inconsequential to him, it is irrelevant, it always has been so, and he need not fight a desire that has never been present.

The Lord of Chaos has always been much too preoccupied, with his mischief and magic, to focus on things with beauty, allure, draw, and he shan't allow himself to be distracted at such a crucial point in his glorious purpose, but for some unfathomable reason he cannot help but think upon the unruly maiden.

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**A/N:** Firstly, I'd like to thank all of you who have followed/favourited/reviewed, I am so flattered to have received feedback. I hope that as I continue to write this, you continue to enjoy it!

Secondly, what are your thoughts on Sigyn? To me, Sigyn is sweet and loving, she encompasses all that is good and pure, and for that Loki both loves her and loathes her. I hope that this Sigyn didn't come across as harsh, because she is anything but cruel, but I also don't want her to come across too softly, for she is a strong figure who has endured great and will endured ever greater miseries.

Thirdly, thoughts on the interaction between Loki and Sigyn? I think that they are both more than 'love at first', they are beyond that, there are intricacies to their relationship that are in need of developing. Loki is in a very dark place and I wanted to make that evident. He will not be easily swayed from his path, for he is not bought by beauty, and Sigyn will have multiple other ways of transfixing him.

Fourthly, I'd like to let it be known (just in case it wasn't obvious enough) that Loki detests Sigyn only because she is kind to him, because she wishes to help him, because she isn't repulsed by him, and he hasn't encountered anyone who is not sickened by the sight of his madness. This puzzles him, angers him, and also (just between you and me) intrigues him. Not that he'd ever confess to feeling such a thing.

Anyway, I hope you all enjoyed! I will never tire of writing this.

Any feedback is greatly appreciated :)

**X**


	5. Boundaries and Betrayal

**DISCLAIMER: **No copyright infringement intended. All Rights Reserved. I make the occasional reference to the movie Thor, The Avengers, and various comics including Loki and Thor, but I make no claim. Unfortunately, I own nothing.

* * *

"Does your madness know no boundaries?!"

The Golden Son of Asgard enters and his voice booms across the cell and echoes loudly in Loki's ears; as he awaited Thor's predicted arrival, he submerged deep within the darkness, for Sigyn had inevitably departed and he was left with no further source of amusement.

Then along came Thor.

Guards stand readily armed on the farther side of the cell, but they have lost their appeal, for the Lord of Chaos has already rendered their kind inadequate and he would rather face a much more sufficient foe.

Loki attempts to sit up in sheer anticipation of the show which the Golden Son is bound to put on. "That's the marvelous thing about Madness, Thor…" Loki murmurs, for the sheer sake of infuriating Thor. "There are _no_ boundaries, no limitations, no restrictions, the opportunities are…endless, and it is _marvelous_."

"Do you have any idea what you've done, Loki?" Thor growls, his grip on Mjölnir tightens.

Loki grins, for he has achieved quite satisfactory results; Thor reaffirms his grip on Mjölnir in his right hand, as he struggles to steady himself, struggles to control the anger which he often feels consumed by, ruled by, and he attempts to calm the rage that courses throughout his veins, it is a searing sensation which he is struggling to overpower.

_You ask why, I ask why not?_

Loki exhibits a callous disregard towards life of any sort – whether that be the life of a mere Midgardian, or the life of a Royal Guard of Asgard is irrelevant – and this is frankly unnerving for Thor, who had never imagined that the one he had once called brother would regress into such a monster of madness.

Thor steps forward, he seeks Loki out in the darkness, and as he had brought no torch forth into the cell with him – for he had moved with haste, anger, impatience – the only light that falls upon them is that of a sun that does not shine as it used to and that of a sky that is not nearly as boundless as it once was.

"Oh, I know _precisely_ what I've done." Loki tells Thor, his teeth are bared as he parts his lips in an even wider smile; Thor fights several urges to beat the answers out of this barbaric beast, the imposter, the animal that revels in blood shed, the one he once referred to as brother.

Thor longs to grab Loki by the throat, to wrench him up from that wrought iron bed that he is nonchalantly draped across and demand answers, explanations, apologies, and the reasoning behind them madness; but, in all honesty, Thor fears of what these answers shall be, and he does not wish to know what Loki deems sufficient grounds for cruel and calculated bloodshed for those words would surely haunt him.

"You took not one innocent life, but two." Thor reminds Loki, sounding distressed as he does, for he cannot fathom why Loki would carry out such callous acts, he cannot fathom why he would wish to further condemn himself but he can understand why he would wish to bring further agony to Asgard and to the House of Odin.

Vengeance.

This is Loki's revenge, his retribution, for he wishes to see the Allfather fall but not before he has brought proper shame and disgrace to the House of Odin; this is unforgiveable, and Thor cannot stand for such an immorality. "And in the name of what, Loki? In the name of vengeance? Your quarrel is not with the people of Asgard, Loki, they have not wronged you."

"I killed them in the name of Mayhem, Thor." Loki replies slowly, carefully, he calculates his words and executes them with deadly precision.; this has always been his weapon. "And in the name of Chaos."

Thor is unable to easily compose himself; his mouth hangs open, agape in horror, and there is a deep frown set upon his golden features for he cannot believe the manner in which Loki speaks, with such nonchalance and yet such delight.

He speaks as though the taking of a life is insignificant, and it is this callous indifference and unnerving disregard for life and death that is greatly unsettling for Thor; Loki must take note of this, for he suddenly speaks and stuns Thor into further silence.

"You mustn't look so shocked, Thor." Loki shakes his head; it is as though he is softly chiding Thor for his foolishness, his childish recklessness, and he continues on in that same manner.

It is as though Loki is gently disciplining a disobedient infant.

"You mustn't act so furious, either; for I gave you fair warning." Loki smugly states.

Thor faintly wonders whether or not Loki's lips have always been parted that way, in a constant cruel smile that both taunts and haunts Thor, but his thoughts are abruptly interrupted for Loki continues to speak.

"I gave you fair warning, but you were too ignorant to listen – you always have been – and now more have died because of you, the mighty Thor! They died at the hands of Loki, but because of the ignorance of Thor. I wonder, what good does all that might do you now, Thor? What good does it do you?"

Loki wishes to throw his head back and cackle at the expression of complete and utter confusion that is present on the features of the Golden Son. "Oh, how the mighty have fallen! You managed to salvage that detestable realm Midgard, and yet you could not muster the might to save the lives of _two_ men."

Thor remains silent, his chest heaves heavily with the burden of inexpressible frustration and anger, as he attempts to decipher the words which Loki so craftily spins and he struggles to find the meaning and intent behind them.

_I am a king! _

Those four words resonate throughout Loki's mind, as he closely watches the heir to the throne of Asgard in his feeble and futile attempts to decipher the meaning behind the words; Loki is the rightful heir to the throne, and he shall reclaim what is rightfully his and he will retrieve what he is owed.

_Not here._

Once Thor deciphers the words, a sense of even greater distress befalls the golden son; for Loki callously killed the two Royal Guards of Asgard in the name of vengeance, in the name of defiance, madness, mayhem, mischief gone too far, for Loki knows precisely how Thor will blame himself, torture himself, and not forgive himself for letting Loki descend into the darkness.

_You give up the tesseract,_

"This isn't mischief, Thor." Loki gladly reminds Thor of the delightful declaration that he made before the weary Allfather, and Frigga whom he could not face, where he kindly informed the Allfather of his intentions, and warned him of the mayhem that was most imminent. "This is mayhem."

It slowly begins to dawn upon Thor that because they provided Loki with the guards, they consequently provided the Lord of Chaos with an audience; the guards stood at attention, eyes straining to see Loki through the darkness as they intently observed his movements.

In his moments of madness and chaos, Loki requires an audience, for in order to be properly feared he needs his callousness and his madness to be observed, and Thor silently scolds himself for his foolishness, his ignorance, and his blindness, for not seeing this sooner.

_You give up this poisonous dream. _

"This is _madness_, Loki." Thor declares, because it is – it was not always so, once it was only mischief, nothing further, nothing irreversible or condemnable - and he now fears that it always shall be so. "This is madness." he repeats, somewhat ruefully, as he slowly draws out each word, hoping vainly that this will sink in for Loki.

"This isn't madness, Thor, this is _mayhem_." Loki corrects, he spitefully spits the words at Thor, and it surprises Thor to see that the one whom he once doted upon as a brother is struggling to rise from where he is on the bed.

His back is slumped against the wall, his hand grip the bed tightly as he attempts to lift himself up; he seems to be finding difficulty in standing swiftly and reasserting his dominance. "Is this not mayhem?" he asks, upon seeing Thor observing him so. "Is this not chaos? Are they not in a state of complete and utter disorder? Has the aftermath of my actions not caused bedlam?"

"Put an end to this, Loki." Thor pleads - this is a sight and a sound which Loki finds most pathetic -as he steps forward slowly, and somewhat cautiously, towards the savage creature which he once doted upon. "This madness _must_ cease."

"There is no end to this – not yet – for this is only the beginning." Loki hisses, his words are abrupt bursts of anger, as the frustration that he feels towards the oaf and towards his blatant ignorance reaches its peak. "There is no end, Thor. Not yet. There is no end to the madness, to the mayhem, the chaos will not cease simply because the Golden Son of Asgard demands it to!"

"Enough!" Thor shouts.

He charges forward, dropping Mjölnir to the floor before he seizes Loki by the collar and drags him from the bed and to the nearest wall in one swift movement; the light from the sun above barely bleeds through the bars, but it is sufficient enough that Thor is able to see the madness that is alight in Loki's eyes, the madness of which he is both weary and wary of.

_Come home. _

"It isn't though, is it?" Loki queries quietly, and he believes this, he will believe it to his final breath, because nothing shall ever suffice, nothing shall ever make up for the miseries that he has suffered.

Loki forces himself not to struggle against Thor's harsh hold and he forces himself not to wince in pain or writhe in discomfort, for he has suffered greater agony than this and even if he were to be in pain he would not be so foolish as to reveal such a weakness.

Even though he is immense pain, even though his feet dangle just above the bloodstained stones – Thor had hoisted him up by the material of his collar, therefore his feet dangle mere centimetres above the ground – and even though his bruised and battered body aches from the force which Thor had used when the boor slammed him up against the wall, Loki remains resolutely silent.

"It will never be enough." Loki whispers.

There are no words and there are no grand gestures that shall ever suffice for the sufferings that he has been forced to endure; nothing shall ever truly make amends, and there will be no redemption, no atonement, no forgiving or being forgiven, and Loki is content with that, he will die at peace with that.

"You give up this crusade." Thor demands, and Loki wishes to snicker at the absurdity of it; he shall take no orders, not from the Golden Son of Asgard, not even from the King of Asgard himself. "And you—"

"Come home?" Loki cuts across Thor abruptly; he looks amused. "I have no home, _Odinson_." he harshly reminds Thor, who is aghast at the manner in which Loki practically growled the word 'Odinson'.

"This is your home, Loki." Thor says, almost sorrowfully, and Loki is disgusted.

Loki is sickened by yet another display of sentimentality from Thor, the almighty warrior, the unyielding God of Thunder, who looks as though he is beaten, broken, defeated; he looks as though his glorious world ceases to be, ceases to glisten, cease to hold any appeal, without the presence of Loki.

"Is it?" Loki inquires. "Then where is my place in this home, Thor? Surely not in a cell, for that would not be a fitting home for a Prince of Asgard; but I am not a Prince of Asgard, am I? I am not ruler of Asgard – not yet – and I appear to be no better than a savage beast that ought to be—"

"This is your home, brother." Thor repeats, as he roughly cuts across Loki; once again, he displays a certain degree of sentimentality that sickens Loki. "The Kingdom is your home."

This display of sentimentality highlights the weaknesses, vulnerabilities and defects that Loki had once thought that the almighty Thor would never be in possession of. He thought Thor to be flawless, faultless, and fearless, but he was mistaken. Thor is flawed, his faults stem from his sentiment, and he fears what it is that he cannot comprehend.

This display of sentiment is the opportune moment for Loki, who decides that nigh is the time to strike, to wound, to cause suffering and inflict agony upon the unknowing and unseeing oaf.

The brute is, once again, providing Loki with the opportunity to take advantage of his faults, of his sentiment, of his weaknesses, - Loki will eternally be Thor's weakness, his vulnerability, for the oaf only wishes for his brother's return – and Loki has never been the kind to turn down a chance of tricking and taunting the Golden Son.

"Did you think me dead?" Loki asks softly, so softly that Thor will undoubtedly be lured in by what he will foolishly perceive to be a display of humanity, of remorse and emotion and regret, but he will be sorely mistaken.

Thor answers with a curt nod; a small frown graces his golden features as he watches Loki, stares intently at Loki with an earnest expression fixed on his features, with both caution and confusion in his eyes, as he waits for the God of Lies to continue.

"Did you mourn me?" Loki queries, for he has often wondered this; he has forced himself to believe that he does not care a whit whether or not Thor mourned his presumed death, and the only reason that he wondered was merely for the sake of curiosity, but, for unfathomable reasons, that excuse of mere curiosity does not sit steady within him.

"Loki." Thor pleads, as he releases his tight hold on Loki's collar – but he does not release his hold entirely – which causes Loki to slide down the wall, until he stands on his two unsteady feet once again.

The God of Thunder does not wish to delve into this darkness; he does not wish to be posed with such queries, for he did mourn the loss of a brother, a companion, a confidant, and he is still in mourning. The brother of Thor was never recovered, he never resurfaced from the abyss, because this beast, this monster of madness that thrives on chaos and bloodshed, is not his brother, this is not his _Loki_.

Loki was lost; he is destined to never return.

"Tell me, Thor, did you mourn me?" Loki queries quietly, solely for the sake of manipulating Thor, and solely for the sake of causing Thor further sorrow so that his miseries may amount to the level of Loki's miseries.

Thor looks away briefly before he slowly sets his eyes back upon Loki, and there is sorrow in Thor's eyes; he does not answer with words, but with a gesture. The oaf sets his hand upon Loki's skin, upon the left side of his face to be precise, and Loki wishes to recoil from the touch immediately.

It is as though Thor is attempting to hold Loki in place; he is feebly trying – and dismally failing – to hold Loki where he is, and he is doing so to further prevent him from regressing, from descending further into the madness, the darkness, for he only wishes for his brother's return.

"Did _father_ shed a tear for the loss of an unwanted son?" Loki asks, rather bitterly, and Thor's frown deepens at the words.

"You are not unwanted, Loki." Thor disagrees, he always does.

"I am no longer necessary though, am I?" Loki questions, but he does not give Thor time to answer his query for he carries on in a most vehemently vicious manner, with unwavering eyes that pierce straight throughout Thor. "There is an heir to the throne of Asgard. What purpose could I, Loki, the Lord of Chaos, possibly fulfill, you ask? And I'll tell you. I was no more than a stolen relic, snatched away from the artic wasteland that is Jotunheim, and my _single_ purpose was to bind the Kingdom of Asgard and Jotunheim."

Thor pulls away, almost as though he is recoiling from the words, recoiling for the truth, but Loki shall not allow for the oaf to escape; not when he, the Lord of Chaos, has been forced to listen to these words, forced to feel them, hate them, rehearse them and recite them, countless times for countless days.

"I was to bind the Kingdom's, unite them through the _unbreakable _bound of brotherhood – the bond that I once believed that you and I shared – but when I refused to fulfill that prophecy, to serve that single purpose, I was disregarded, tossed aside and then renounced by the Allfather himself!"

With that vehement outburst, Loki brusquely brushes the oaf's hand from his bloodstained skin; but Thor is too stunned to notice, for he has fallen into a temporary silence. He has not become silenced with horror, but rather with an overwhelming sense of sorrow and pity.

Loki is hurting, he is aching with discontentment and dissatisfaction, for his entire existence is based on a falsehood; he was born and raised an Asgardian but he was fed falsehoods, and the magic that Odin cast upon him was only skin deep, it could not alter what was within, it could not alter the blood that runs deeper than any magic.

"We will always be bonded through our brotherhood, Loki." Thor abruptly declares, and Loki wishes to sever the oaf's tongue for such a declaration.

Thor ought not be making such promises that he shall never be able to keep, for he could not possibly uphold, could not keep his word, not with the disapproval of the Allfather weighing down heavily upon Loki, and the condemnation that the Court shall surely deliver.

"Bonded by _brotherhood_?" Loki barks out a cruel laugh, a sound that causes Thor to recoil away, a single but solid step backwards, but Loki inches forward, keeping step with the almighty son of Asgard, "Once, perhaps, but all bonds between us were severed long ago, Thor, you saw to that when you dropped me from the Bifrost."

A realization dawns upon Thor, causing him to immediately straighten up; Loki had intended to draw Thor in, with quiet words, woeful words, small sounds, which would evoke emotions of sympathy, remorse and a small sense of understanding, within him, and this would draw his attention away from the more relevant matters at hand.

"The Court is demanding your exile." Thor blurts out.

Loki falters; he turns away briefly, turns towards the darkness, as though he is contemplating his next choice of words, before he turns to face Thor with an amused expression in place.

"And what say you, _brother_?" Loki questions, the word 'brother' is a venomous word, full of disgust and disdain and malevolent mockery. "Do you demand my immediate exile, or do you think me fit to sit before the Court and plead my case?"

"Plead your _case_?" Thor echoes the statement with barely curbed disbelief. "It is a sentencing hearing, Loki; there is no case to plead, your guilt need not be determined."

"That hardly seems fair now, does it?" Loki asks, lips parted in a wide smile, indicating that he is highly amused by this most predictable turn of events; he had never intended to plead – there would be no pleading – his case, for he does not need them to see the method behind his madness in order to successfully subjugate them.

"Take care with how you speak, Loki." Thor gruffly warns. "You speak of fairness, as though you understand the meaning of the word, but you killed two Royal Guards – two innocent men – and in the name of vengeance."

"You cannot help yourself, can you?" Loki snarls. "You feel the incessant need to avenge every wrong you perceive from your position of languid morality, as if it were some sort of game!" he spits, and he finds such delight in saying the words with such fervent disgust, for Thor's face falls promptly, shatters and crumbles and breaks, as the words resonate.

"You are the one who acts as though it is all a game, Loki!" Thor exclaims, as he charges forward once again, and instead of taking ahold of the material of Loki's collar he takes a harsh hold of his throat – as he had done when he had first found Loki in that floating contraption on Midgard – and roughly pushes him forward, with haste and with anger, so that his back is flat up against the stone wall once more.

Loki squirms, ever so slightly, but he does not wince – regardless of the shooting pain that strikes throughout his spine – and he continues to watch Thor with a steely glare, for he refuses to falter, to hesitate, to question or doubt, for he cannot afford to have such weaknesses.

Loki's hair is unruly, matted and unkempt, strands stick out waywardly, and there is an equal unruliness to his eyes, they are strikingly similar to the eyes of an animal – an animal which has been caged far too long, kept too long in confinement, and is now growing restless with a thirst to quench, a hunger to satiate – and as he parts his lips, Thor is repulsed at the blood that stains them and the once pearl white surface of his teeth.

"But surely it is a game, isn't it?" Loki smiles, as he brings his hands up to enclose Thor's one hand, his fingers wrap around his wrist, but he does not attempt to tug at Thor's wrist, to remove his hold, but he simply allows for his fingers to hang there.

"Killing is no game, Loki." Thor growls.

"My, my, you truly have changed, haven't you?" Loki observes, his voice is a low murmur, before he poses the question that causes Thor's restraints on his temper to temporarily falter, "Where is the almighty Thor? The Thor to be feared, with a strength that could only be marveled and never equaled! Where is the Thor who craved war, the Thor who sought it out willingly, who intentionally brought it upon the realms? Tell me, where is he who was both heedless and reckless in his actions, with an indifference – that is not too dissimilar from my own – towards life and death?"

Thor remains silent, aside from the small sounds of his labored breathing; from that silence, emerges the sound of a cruel, bitter laugh, and Thor's attentions is immediately drawn away from the blood on Loki's skin and to disdain that swells in Loki's piercing eyes.

"Your noble knights have fallen, and, in turn, they have dismally failed you and your glorious Kingdom." Loki smiles, lips parted upwards in a cruel grin. "If this is a game, where is the fun in facing a foe that I have already fought and rendered incompetent? Am I not deserving of an equally worthy opponent?" he asks, cocking his head to the side as he runs his eyes down Thor's figure before back up. "Although you are not _equally_ worthy, for your physical might is not nearly a match for my Madness, but you are more sufficient than those blundering fools you so foolishly dubbed Royal Guards!"

Thor is silently fuming, but before he is able to respond his sorrowful eyes fall down upon the two hands that are enclosed around his own; there is blood stained upon those hands, it marks the pale skin and it is underneath the nails, and Thor is disgusted by the evidence of what was no doubt a display of barbarism.

"You welcomed this bloodshed." Thor observes, much to Loki's delight, and the God of Thunder is repulsed by the thought that Loki planned each movement and each murder methodically to fit in with what Loki deems to be his grand scheme of Chaos.

"Indeed I did, Thor." Loki concedes. "For those men were destined to die, they were sacrificed for a higher purpose, and for that correct observation I shall let you in on a little secret; I did not just welcome the bloodshed, Thor, I reveled in it." he says, sounding frighteningly genuine and delighted as he makes his declaration. "I must say, there is no feeling quite as marvelous as when you deliberate over whether to take a life or let it live."

"They were good, decent men!" Thor bellows, his booming voice breaks across the silence, cuts across the soft echo of Loki's spiteful words, "They were innocent men!" he adds, and he is barely able to restrain himself as he watches the smile spread across Loki's lips.

"For a moment there, I thought you to be a Midgardian; for you preach of morality and innocence as though you comprehend them, and as though the two were one in the same." Loki disdainfully declares, before he expresses his next beliefs in a vehement display of hatred. "Decency does not equate to innocence, Thor, nor does innocence equate to decency. You ought to know better than that, especially since you had me for a brother. I was decent once, but never innocent."

Loki is mistaken, for Thor can recall a time when his brother was harmless, innocent and decent, he can recall a time when Loki was deserving of the title of Prince of Asgard, but this is not that time.

Now, there is no longer a single shred of decency left in Loki, the innocence has been long lost and claimed by the darkness, and he is most harmful; there is no humanity left, no remorse, and Thor is slowly beginning to open his eyes to that.

"Innocence is a misconception," Loki continues, and Thor wishes that he would not speak, he longs for the sweet silence of denial where he is not forced to listen to the venomous words of a lost brother. "An idyllic but misguided notion, because there are no innocent men; innocence is for children, it is only fitting for infants, not for corrupted mortals and condemned creatures such as you and I."

And yet, in contradiction to his previous statement, there was a certain air of innocence that surrounded Sigyn when she was present in the cell; it was evident in those eyes which were as green as emeralds, and Loki absolutely detested the notion that she should possess even a shred of innocence.

"Their blood is on your hands, Thor Odinson." Loki sneers, teeth bared in a cruel snarl as he continues on callously, eyes wide with delight as he watches Thor visibly recoil from the words,

The God of Thunder tightens his hold around the God of Lies' throat; Loki draws in a sharp, shuddering breath, and this causes Thor to be somewhat perplexed. Surely he could not be affected, Thor thinks to himself, and similar thoughts resound through Loki's mind as he struggles to catch his breath; he cannot fathom why his hands have failed to remove Thor's from his skin.

"Who has done this to you?" Thor demands; he is aghast, for he had properly looked upon his brother and he saw the dark marks that adorned his pale skin, the cuts and the scrapes and the ghastly bruises.

Loki has a sickly appearance; he is badly beaten, with dark bruises underneath his eyes, countless lacerations littered across his skin, and there is blood, so much blood, that it sickens Thor to the point that he allows for his expression to contort into one of disgust.

Loki chuckles darkly before he speaks, each word is more spiteful than the last as he proudly proclaims, "You think yourself above me, you think yourself to be virtuous in comparison to my blackened soul, and you think your hands to be clean but there is blood on your hands, as there is on mine, and you are knee deep in decaying bodies."

Thor pushes Loki harder up against the wall, tilting the God of Lies' head so that he is able to catch a better of glimpse of the markings underneath the dull light of the sun. He sees that Loki's lip is split, that there is blood staining his skin, it is smeared across his lips, it has dried on his temples, on his cheeks, and there are countless cuts scattered across his pale features.

"Who has done this to you?!" Thor demands to know, his booming voice resounds loudly but it does not instill a sense of fear within Loki, for the God of Lies is quite accustomed to the sound of screaming.

"Do not act as though you are oblivious to the orders of Odin!" Loki snarls, as he struggles against Thor's hold; he fights against it, writhes and thrashes and attempts to escape from it, but his attempts are futile for Thor has an iron-like hold on Loki's throat. "Do not act as though you truly are _this_ foolish, Thor, it is not befitting of you." he adds, with an unkind smile situated on his lips.

Thor frowns, and he refuses to believe that the Allfather, that their father, _his_ father, not Loki's father, would order for such a callous act to be committed against the one whom he raised as a son of Odin and Frigga. "Take care with how you speak, Loki, our father—"

"_Your_ father." Loki bitterly reminds the boor, before he continues on swiftly, sharply, causing the boor much distress and dismay as he carries on. "And what if I were to tell you that I brought this beating upon myself, Thor, what would you say to that?"

Loki pauses, he watches Thor intently, scanning and scrutinizing and searching his features for any indication of his current inclinations towards Loki. "Would you recoil in disgust?" he asks, knowing that this is the most likely. "Would you wish me ill? Would you renounce me as our _father_ did? Or would you look upon me sadly, with naught but detestable _pity_ in your eyes?"

Thor releases his hold, as Loki had expected he would, and he allows for Loki's feet to touch the floor he does not release his hold entirely on this unrepentant creature. "You brought this upon yourself?" he asks, with eyes that are clouded with that sorrow and pity that Loki so greatly loathes.

Loki stays silent, he surmises that his lack of an actual verbal answer is sufficient enough for an answer as Thor's face promptly falls; he fists his hands in the material of Loki's collar, but he makes no sudden movements, shows no indication that he intends on injuring or lifting the God of Lies.

Thor cannot comprehend the idea that Loki would bring about this suffering willing, that he would wish to bring about such pain, for it is insanity; it is insanity, to speak of such things, to delightfully declare that one sought out a brutal beating, and then it suddenly makes sense.

"You brought this upon yourself as penance."

"Penance?" Loki scoffs at such an absurd idea. "I did no such thing!"

This was no penance, it was vengeance, it was chaos, it was all a part of the bigger picture, the plan, the path to complete and utter chaos, and Thor is once again too ignorant to open his eyes and see that truth as it stares him in the face, the truth that bares its teeth and snarls spiteful words at him.

"You did." Thor disagrees, much to Loki's disgust and disbelief. "You think yourself unworthy, as a son and as a brother, and you delude yourself into madly believing that penance is your rightful punishment."

"I am worthy!" Loki shouts, and his booming voice brings about a silence for the ferocity to his words subjugated Thor into a stunned silence. "Perhaps I am not a worthy _son_, or a worthy _brother_, and I shall never be worthy enough to wear the golden crown of Asgard, but that shall not stop me from seizing it! That shall not hinder my path, my glorious purpose!"

It is only now, as Loki inches closer towards Thor – consequently stepping into what little light leaks into the cell – that the God of Thunder is able to properly catch sight of the gashes and dark marks that stain Loki's skin.

Thor briefly wonders just why it is that Loki was so susceptible to the weapons of the Guards who sought vengeance and retaliated by brutally beating the God of Lies; he knew of this, he was outraged to learn that both Heimdall and Odin had reminded silent while this beating was carried out, but what he did not know was who had struck Loki so hard that it _marked_ his skin.

Loki is a God; he may be an outcast, an adopted brother, a monster of madness and beyond reason, but he is a God nonetheless and Gods are not susceptible to receiving injuries as easily as all others.

"I _am_ worthy, I am worthy of the title of Loki, God of Lies, Maker of Mischief and Lord of _Chaos_." Loki declares, and his words are fast, fierce, ferocious and there is a feral look in his eyes that has been long been present. "And I have found much greater glory as the Lord of Chaos then I ever did as the lesser son, the second son, the less forgotten son of Odin!"

"Enough!" Thor declares, for Loki's words are poisonous, they are corrupting both Thor's mind and his memories, and he will not be subject to such poison for a moment longer. "I cannot stand to hear such poison!" he shouts, his hand has reclaimed its position on Loki's throat and he roughly tosses the monster aside.

Thor he cannot trust himself to be within close proximity with it, for he may not be able to refrain from harming it; he deduces that it is less dangerous this way, that he will feel less inclined to hurt Loki if he is not staring straight into the eyes of the beast.

The God of Thunder feels a pang of regret, for Loki makes a small pained sound, almost a whimper, as he falls down upon the stones; he struggles to rise, his arms are shaky and unsteady beneath him, and his back is to Thor as his attempts fail and he falls flat on his face.

A second noise resounds throughout the cell, another noise of pain and discomfort, and Thor cannot help but run to his brother's rescues; he kneels down beside him, grips his arm tightly and assists him to his feet. To Thor's surprise, Loki does not recoil immediately - this should have been warning enough, but Thor was ignorant - and he simply stands where he is, eyes on Thor's, arm still gripping his brother's, almost as though he would never let go.

The sincerity of Loki's eyes was what betrayed him; for he had worn a similar expression back on Midgard, but Thor is as ignorant now as he was then - if not more - and he refused to question, to doubt, to fear.

Loki had his back to Thor, his mess of unkempt hair concealed his face from the brute, so Thor could not have seen Loki's movements, and he could not have seen how Loki reached underneath the bed as he blindly searched the darkness for the dagger.

Thor did not see the dagger, but he felt it.

He feels it as it pierces his skin, feels it as it tears at him, as it draws blood and pulls a low hiss of pain from his lips, but that was not the worst pain; the worst pain, the unbearable pain that burns throughout him, the pain that courses throughout his veins and shatters each and every hope that he had for Loki's return, is the pain of betrayal.

Loki leans in closely; he presses his lips to Thor's ear as he had done with Sigyn, as he softly whispers one word, one single word, which hurts more than the dagger. "Sentiment." he snarls, voice both soft and vicious, amused and angered, mocking and malevolent. "It will be your undoing, _brother_."

Loki thrives on chaos, rejoices in madness and revels in bloodshed; this is not the Loki that Thor once knew, the one he once loved, the one he grew with, the one he fought beside in battle, and he fears that he shall never meet that Loki again.

The one whom Thor once called brother, the old Loki, the mischievous but moral Loki, thrived on knowledge, rejoiced in mischief and reveled in magic; but this is not that Loki, this is a beast, a monster, but not an imposter.

"I believe that the term for this game in particular is _chess." _Loki declares, much to Thor's dismay, disbelief and disgust. "I will not only take out your King and Queen, but I will bring your entire Kingdom. I cannot promise to you much else; but _that_ I promise to you. And it will be all for you, brother, this is all for you."

The Loki whom Thor once loved is gone, he shall never return, he is bound to the darkness, the madness, and he shall never resurface. Loki cannot return, not when he has become the darkness and all that is evil; Loki _is_ the darkness, and Thor is a symbol of light which Loki loathes with every iota of his being.

* * *

**A/N:** I'd like to thank all of you who have followed/favourited/reviewed, I am so flattered to have received feedback. I hope that as I continue to write this, you continue to enjoy it!

This chapter is not what I envisioned, but it is what I wrote nonetheless.

It is missing the presence of the pivotal Sigyn, but I felt that this interaction needed to be here, that this needed to be established between Thor and Loki. The next chapter is practically based on the interactions between Loki and Sigyn (with a brief focus on Thor and Odin) and it should suffice for lack of interaction in this chapter.

I hope you all enjoyed this.

Take care!

**X**


	6. Endurance and Enlightenment

Thor seeks out the Allfather.

The vindictive snarl of venomous hatred and awful accusations spat by a brother who growls of betrayal resound loudly throughout his mind as he carries on with his pursuit of discovering the whereabouts of Odin, but he cannot shake the sound of such spiteful words, words which cause his skin to crawl, his heart to ache, his hands to close into clenched fists.

Thor bites down on unspeakable words, words he will never say to one who was once a brother but is no longer, because he cannot bring himself to inflict such agony on the one who has caused distress and despair for the God of Thunder.

Words, small and soft and so full of vehement abhorrence, cause Thor to revert to his previous way of mourning the loss of a brother, grieving the death of kin, for he refuses to believe that the beast who betrays him time and time again, plunging daggers into his ribs before pledging to ruin the realms on behalf of Thor.

As he storms forth in large, hurried strides, he sets his eyes upon the figure of his father; he stands out on a balcony overlooking Asgard, the balcony which he and Thor and stood upon following Loki's demise, and it is evident that the Allfather has grown weary, weaker with each passing moment, for he steadies himself on a column as thoughts of a loss son slowly overwhelm him.

Thor falters, for he feels as though he is intruding on a moment of private pain, and he should not be gawking and gaping at the sight of a father in mourning, but then he hears the words of a lost brother, spiteful snarls that could not possibly ring true, "_Do not act as though you are oblivious to the orders of Odin_."

The God of Thunder breaks the silence abruptly, words unintentionally brusque. "What curse have you bestowed upon Loki?" he queries, knowing that even in this state of silent suffering that the Allfather will hear him.

"Curse?" Odin glances up, "No curse."

"Magic, then?" Thor asks.

Thor was not bestowed with the gift of magic, he cannot masterfully manipulation magic but he once believed that he had no need for it, that it was a meager means of defence against weaponry, he could wield the mighty Mjölnir and that was all he required, but he has since been enlightened, his eyes have been opened to the horror that magic can make, the cruelty it can conjure up, and such realizations came at the hands of Loki.

Odin straightens up, hands shaking only slightly as he stands and turns towards the iridescent skies hovering above the city as he shows his back to Thor. Thor follows, feet moving before he can stop himself, and as he stands beside Odin he resumes his questioning.

"You have cast a spell on Loki." Thor says quietly

He is not questioning the matter, for he saw the marks that adorned his skin, the wounds, the gashes, the lacerations that should not still be present. He knows that Odin removed Loki of his magic, but what he does not understand or comprehend is why Loki is deteriorating so drastically.

"No, not a spell, not quite." Odin murmurs, eyes slowly making their way across the expanse of land that is Asgard, before he turns towards Thor and meets his son's impatient eyes with his weary ones. "Loki is not worthy of magic, Thor."

Thor nods, understanding how unsettling such a thought as Loki being in possession of magic would be for Odin, for Frigga, and for the few citizens of Asgard who know of his survival. Loki's lunacy is infamous, he shall not be allowed to possess such a powerful weapon of destruction, not in his lifetime. If he is to be banished, he will be cast aside without his magic capabilities, for such a mix would only prove potent.

"I have sacrificed much for the sake of Loki." Odin says, wearier with each word. "Through my ignorance, I have rendered my voice unworthy. I spoke to The Court of reconcile, of an armistice, but my ignorance has betrayed me."

"Ignorance?" Thor echoes the word.

"I acted not as a King, but as a father."

"You are not ignorant, father." Thor disagrees.

"I am not as wise as I once was though, am I?" Odin murmurs, more to himself than to Thor. "I was foolish, Thor. I took his magic away to teach him a lesson, but he will not learn, he refuses to. I declared before The Court that Loki would learn humanity over the course of his imprisonment, that he need not be exiled, that he would repent, but he is not contrite."

"Loki is not himself."

"I took not only his magic, but his invincibility." Odin confesses, closing his eyes as he continues, almost contritely, "It is not a curse, but I do not doubt that he will see it as such."

"You wish him dead?" Thor asks, aghast as the pieces fall into place; he is no longer oblivious to the orders of Odin. "You ordered his beating, did you not?"

"No."

"But you did not prevent it."

"I have grown weary, Thor. My hindsight fails me."

"Hindsight? This is not a matter of hindsight, father, he was _beaten_."

"You lack clear judgment, Thor." Odin states, eyes snapping open. "You are biased."

"Biased?" Thor is aghast.

"He is your brother." Odin says.

"You are his father!" Thor shouts.

"I was, once, but no longer." Odin answers quietly, calmly, a look of grief has reaffirmed its position in his eyes as he turns towards Thor once again. "Beneath the madness there is a boy," he wistfully declares, a woeful ring to his words as he continues, "He is scared and foolish, but no more than a boy. That is what I told The Court, Thor, but I was mistaken."

"I will not renounce him," Thor declares, images of a childhood cloud his mind, they played together, fought beside each other, brothers, no longer by blood but by bond; the God of Thunder refuses to relinquish his not link to Loki . "Not as you did."

"Your ignorance blinds you," Odin sighs, "Such as how it has blinded me.

"I am not blind, father." Thor replies, rather sharply. "I saw the bruises that adorned his skin."

"Loki is not worthy of invincibility, he manipulates it, wields it as one would a hammer or a sword, he is not deserving of it." Odin says, because they both know it to be true; without his magic, without his invincibility, all the God of Lies has left is his madness.

"He is not worthy of it? Father, he will _die_ without it." Thor answers, anguish rings throughout his words as he abruptly slams his fist down on the railings of the balcony. "Loki will die by his own hand, or by the hands of those who delivered his beating, while you stand by idly."

"He will not die." Odin states.

Thor is disbelieving, "You have not seen him, father."

"I have seen enough, Thor." The Allfather quietly answers.

Annoyance overwhelms Thor, for some unfathomable reason he is suddenly infuriated with the Allfather, enraged that he will not visit Loki. "He does not belong in that cage."

"Loki lodged a knife between your ribs, Thor." Odin says, for he sees all even if he does not wish to, even if he wishes to recoil from the sight of a rabid son, vengeful and vehemently vicious. "Where does he belong if not a cage? Not in the Kingdom, no, he does not belong where he may be free to roam. He is no longer a mischievous boy, Thor, he is malicious, the feeling of a blade between your ribs shall remind you of this in dark days to come."

"He is angry, but he is not an animal."

"You do me proud, Thor. " Odin announces, as he starts to walk away, intent on ending this argument before it further escalates; he could not stand to lose both sons, that would surely mark the end. "You have learnt much, grown from the greedy boy you once were and you will make a fine King, but there is no such redemption for Loki."

* * *

Blood is oozing, gushing, trickling. Breathing becomes increasingly difficult, then death becomes appealing, alluring, all he thinks of as they torture him, taint him, stain his skin with a constellation of scars that will forever stain his skin regardless of the magic he uses to conceal them.

He is wheezing, gasping, dying.

A hundred days could pass and he would not know, the only indicator of fleeting time is the frail light of a pale moon every once and awhile. He knows only that he has been here, bound here, banished to this pit of darkness, death, despair. Bones ache, blood has dried, breathing is a nuisance, all he does is dream, dream horrible dreams, awful sights, horrid scenes.

Dreaming is an unusual occurrence, for the Lord of Chaos is not a dreamer, but his minds wanders and once he is drained to the point of exhaustion, when he can no longer stand the sight of his own misery, he dreams of her, he conjures up images of possibilities, of a life beyond this, a life that is not decided, condemned, long lost and irretrievable, and it is most unsettling.

Sigyn is there, here, in his thoughts. Her skin is porcelain pale, her raven hair as soft as silk, and she whispers sweet words to him as though he is worthy, as though he is deserving of compassion and kindness. She speaks to him as though he is not wanting, as though he is deserving of life, and, oddly enough, he does not feel the incessant need to strangle the life from her, to drain the purity from her soul, to spoil her, to corrupt her innocence and effectively remove the light from her eyes.

She is a pleasant distraction at the least, and an obstruction at the most; she is enchanting, confounding, transfixing, and she will ultimately be his undoing if he is to be subjected to her presence, subjected to her soft words and the curiosity that she evoked from him in their first and only encounter, for even Loki doubts that Odin would not be so foolish as to send her back to desolation.

* * *

As Sigyn looks upon the slumbering prince, she cannot refrain from feeling a sense of sorrow as she sees the countless wounds that are scattered across his sickly pale features, nor can she refrain from sparing a small smile at the peaceful state in which he rests, his chest rises and falls in a surprisingly steady rhythm.

Dried blood remains, the dark crimson that is smeared across his skin is striking against the sickly pale complexion, and as her eyes fall upon the dark blood underneath his nails her hand instinctively flies to the once tender skin of her inner wrist.

The blood is gone, her wound has healed, no scars remain, and yet the vivid memory stays with her. Sigyn turns her wrist slowly before she traces the skin there, the skin where the scratches in the shape of crescent moons once were, and she faintly wonders whether the blood underneath his nails belongs to her, to him, or to the unfortunates who have fallen before her.

He continues to slumber soundlessly, his chest rises and falls steadily, and he looks significantly less daunting in comparison to the beast which she encountered five days earlier; he does not look innocent, nor does he look harmless, Sigyn doubts that one with such a corrupted soul could ever look innocent, but there is something less threatening about the ease in which he rests.

Sigyn absentmindedly outstretches a hand to brush back stray strands of hair which have fallen out of place from the dirty, unkempt mess of night black hair, and the very second she tucks the stray strands behind the ear of the prince her wrist is sharply seized.

"Unwise, unruly maiden." Loki growls.

His grip is tight, harsh, despite his weakened state he holds her in a surprisingly strong hold. "Why have you returned to me?" he asks, eyes snapping open, grip tightening as he spits those words through partially clenched teeth as he regards her angrily, suspiciously, spitefully.

As Sigyn struggles to reclaim her wrist, the God of Lies watches her with barely curbed curiosity; he cannot comprehend why, or when for that matter, she returned to his side, especially after his genuine promise of ruining her if she were foolish enough to do such a thing.

"I swore to you I would ruin you." he states, watching her expectantly as he believes on as brash and reckless as her would not refrain from speaking her mind. He sounds amused as he continues, a smile on his lips as he takes in her silence, her wide eyes. "If nothing else, I am a man of my word. If it is ruin that you seek, servant of Asgard, then I can happily provide."

"It is not ruin that I seek." Sigyn defiantly declares.

Contempt coats his words as he queries, "Why do you bid me return?"

"I am bound to you, my prince."

Loki snickers; it is a taunting, bitter sound, but he only does so out of habit, for it is a reflex, it is all he knows, for he has never known of commitment nor kindness, and he seeks to suppress the emotions that struggle to seep to the surface. "You are _bound_ to me?" he laughs, "Never have I heard such a foolish notion, not even from the likes of my blundering brute of a brother!"

"I am bound to tend to you, my prince." she carefully corrects.

He hisses, his grip tightens on her wrist as he struggles to sit, but he reveals no other signs of weakness, of pain or injury, for he does not seek, nor does he believe that he shall ever receive, pity. He tries to swallow, but his mouth is painfully dry. His throat is raw, raw with unspoken words and unheard screams, but this is not what bothers him so.

What bothers him most is the odd sensation of being broken, of being bruised, battered, and this feeling is not one that fades as he moves but rather it is amplified by any such movements. Sigyn seems to have heard his thoughts, for her free hand flies to the center of his chest as she attempts to coax him into lying back down.

"Slowly." she gently commands, to his complete and utter disbelief. "You must move slowly, my prince."

"You must not forget your place, servant." he snarls, before snatching her free hand and grasping it in his own; she gasps, out of shock rather than out of fear or pain, as his long fingers lock around her wrist, his eyes burning into hers as he attempts to break her resolve, to cause her to flee, but she remains where she is, apparently unsettled by such a display.

"I know my place, my prince."

Ignoring her, he shakes his head as though chiding a child. "How unfortunate it is that you have returned, foolish maiden," he murmurs, voice a low rasp as he continues, "For now you are destined for nothing but ruin."

"I am not foolish." she declares.

"Indeed you are if you believe that your return marks an act of bravery on your behalf," he sharply retorts, clearing his throat before he speaks slowly, a bitterness to his words that she has become somewhat accustomed to, "There is nothing brave about recklessness, servant. You are not brave, you are brash, deluded, foolish like a child, an ignorant infant who cannot resist temptation, the lure of danger draws you in but you haven't the heart for it."

"I am not foolish, my prince."

"Bound, you say?" he quietly queries, grip loosening slightly but not entirely. "Pray tell, reckless servant, precisely who has bound you to me? I see no chains around your ankles, no rope holds you here. Why do you bid me return if you are not indeed bound as you claim to be?"

"You forget the chains that bind my wrists, my prince." Sigyn says, glancing down at the bloodstained hands of a broken man, his knuckles white with the pressure in which he holds onto her; he meets her eyes slowly, ice burning into emerald, before he releases his hold entirely, gently dropping her hands.

"Consider them broken." he murmurs, releasing his hold on her as though she were the toxic one, the beast, the one with the blackened heart and corrupted soul. He says not a word more as she watches him, torn between fear and curiosity but feeling herself being drawn to the latter rather than the former.

Sigyn turns towards the supplies she has spread out across the stone floor, a slight shake to her hands as she feels the icy eyes on her, watching her closely, coldly, somewhat suspiciously.

"Curious, isn't." Loki remarks, raking his eyes over her before she turns to face him, a bowl of that pasty substance in hand; he scowls the moment he sees it, the mere smell of it is revolting enough, he cannot begin to imagine the taste of it.

Sigyn simply raises an eyebrow expectantly, silently waiting for Loki to continue; when he fails to, she speaks softly, eyes fixed on the substance which she slowly stirs. "What has caught your curiosity, my prince?"

Loki is, at first, somewhat reluctant to enlighten Sigyn on precisely what has caught his attention, but following several seconds of silence he decides to not deprive her of information which she is evidently in dire need of knowing.

"How curious it is that you are not outwardly bothered by being touched." Loki states, voice wavering halfway as a consequence of a thirst that has not been quenched for countless days and nights. "I take a hold of your wrists in my bloodstained hands, yet you barely blink."

"May I speak freely, my prince?" Sigyn requests, much to his surprise, as she glances up from the bowl of pale gunk in her gentle hands. He nods slowly, a small smile of amusement on his lips as he briefly reflects on such occasions where she has spoken freely, without restraint or regret, and she has not requested such permission.

"I am inclined to believe that my permission is irrelevant." Loki answers sharply, rather flatly, for he recalls how she is a distraction, an obstacle, with soft words and gentle touches; she must be eradicated before she is able to cause further obstruction. "With that said, do take care with how you speak, servant; surely you recall the tale of what awful fate befell he who spoke far too freely, and I would hate to see such beauty spoiled due to undue recklessness."

Sigyn hesitates before she speaks, "What happened to you?" she softly asks, with the wide eyes and unabashed naivety that are more fitting to an infant and not to a grown woman; such ignorance will surely only end in tragedy.

"What happened?" he echoes, wincing at the rawness of his throat, the rasp to his words, the rueful look in her eyes. He snickers mirthlessly, as a desire to disappoint and disgust prevails over all else, but that is until she places a gentle hand on the side of his face, almost as though this will act of affection will soothe him.

His eyes harden as he stares her down, disbelieving, but she is not deterred by the iciness of those eyes nor the darkness of that demeanor. "How curious." she remarks, words barely audible as she slowly examines the extent of damage that was inflicted days earlier, and he nearly smiles at the similarity in statements and the audacity she exhibits.

"How curious it is," Sigyn begins as she brushes a hand through his filthy hair, the matted locks remain stiff on his shoulders and she is barely able to part her fingers through it, "That you are outwardly bothered by being touched."

His hand flies out immediately, catching hers, gripping it so tightly that it should further hinder her movements; once again, she is apparently not bothered by such contact, even as the tips of his nails dig into the tender skin of her wrist she remains resolutely composed. Oh, how Loki wishes to crack that composure, to see what secrets are hidden beneath, to find what it is she fears and why it is that she has bid him return.

"Your hair must be cut." Sigyn bluntly states, an innocent look in her eyes as she maintains eye contact, unnerved by the unwavering grip on her wrist. "It is matted, unkempt, hardly fitting for a prince."

"You dare mock me?" Loki growls, gladly tightening his grip, for he is no prince, he was dishonored, disowned, renounced in the very Great Hall where he should have be crowned King of Asgard. "Have you already forgotten our previous encounter? If so, I will gladly remind you."

"I have not forgotten." Sigyn declares.

"Ah." Loki says, as though he has had an epiphany of sorts, an unkind smile on his lips as he speaks. "You are not foolish and forgetful by nature, are you? It is selective; how unfortunate that such beauty will be spoiled by such folly."

Sigyn inhales deeply, her gaze never wavering, her composure never cracking. "You were left for five days without nourishment. I am here to replenish you, my prince." she says flatly, tugging at her wrist in an attempt to rescue it from his own.

Loki's lips involuntarily widen in a smile, "I've struck a chord." he says, sounding anything but contrite, but she remains stoic, emerald eyes the only indicator that he has indeed struck a chord. He sighs, smile fading ever so slightly as he watches the frenzy of emotions flicker throughout her eyes.

"Your eyes betray you." he declares, retracting his nails from her skin but not releasing his hold. "Do you know what they say about eyes, Sigyn?" he wonders, stunning her into further silence for this is the first time this morning that he has called her by her name, not by a title. "Windows to the soul."

"Your eyes are black."

Loki remains still, the only movement he makes is the parting of his lips as he responds to her abrupt, and, if that look in her eyes is any sort of indicator, accidental observation. "Symbolic of a black soul, I presume."

Sigyn remains silent, but Loki is not bothered by silence; he has grown accustomed to it, too long has he been immersed in it, suffocated by it, and now it is naught but a rare companion, much like the darkness, the madness and the chaos.

"There are specks of blue," Sigyn says, she had no trouble locating said specks of blue for they pierced straight through her, unabashed and unrestrained. "Fragments of light. Symbolic of a damaged soul, but not one that is entirely ruined."

"There is no such a thing as a half-ruined soul, Sigyn." Loki declares, voice lacking the usual venom that would accompany such a statement. "There are the corrupt and then there are those who will be corrupted; there is no in-between, no mediate. Innocence is an aspiration, it could be a charitable trait were it not unattainable, and it is a fable all the same."

Sigyn holds his gaze momentarily, before she glances down to the bowl in her hand, the pasty substance which has no doubt become even more unappealing for the prince he is past the point of hunger. "Your scratches are gone." he notes, as he releases his hold on her.

She drops her eyes down to the inside of her wrist, briefly tracing the skin there before turning her attention back to the bowl in her hands, she stirs it one final time before she inches closer to the prince, who was haphazardly tossed into a new cell, a cell without a table or a bed, and is now strewn out across the stones.

"You are not fond of scars?" he inquires, a bitterness there in his words that she cannot comprehend, she does not understand why he holds such hostility towards her because of her lack of visible scars; her scars are easily concealed, unbeknownst to him.

Some of Sigyn's scars are temporarily hidden, masked by magic, whereas others are concealed by such a simple thing as a dress with long sleeves, a dress that covers these reminders for the meantime. "I am indifferent to them." she says, aiming for indifference.

"Indifferent? I think not." Loki disagrees, for the God of Lies knows a liar when he sees one.

Sigyn neither reacts nor responds to his words, she simply recomposes herself. "I am here to replenish you, my prince." she reiterates, and it is only now that those words finally sink in for Loki, for he had barely heard them earlier.

"I am not in need of nourishment." he answers, before abruptly attempting to sit up, but his plans are soon foiled by the feeling of unsteady bones – perhaps even fractured, or broken – and unwilling limbs beneath him. His arms give out beneath him, and he collapses down onto the stone floor with a thud, slipping and smashing his head on the hard floor.

Sigyn sighs softly, her hands on his shoulders as she attempts to help him to at least sit up; her small hands slide down his forearms, brushing against the rough leather of his shirt, as she helps him into a sitting position. She succeeds, and he sits with his back against the wall, head slumped to the side as he draws in an unsteady breath.

"Eat this." Sigyn demands, after scooping the substance up and holding it near his mouth; much to her disbelief he complies, but only on the terms that he handles the spoon himself, for he adamantly refuses to be spoon-fed.

She holds the bowl in her hands as she sits beside him, her legs tucked up underneath her so that she is sitting on her ankles, while he slowly brings the spoon down to the bowl for a second serving, a look that suggests he is most unimpressed on his features, before he manoeuvres it back up to his broken lips, lips which are still stained with dried blood.

* * *

Thor finds Frigga wandering around the hallways, he follows her footsteps and is not surprised to see where her feet lead her; Loki's previous residence, his bedroom chamber which has been kept precisely how it was before such unfortunate and irreversible events unravelled.

"I too pay visit." Thor quietly declares, as he slowly steps into the room after his mother, softly closing the double doors behind him, and as he turns he finds Frigga by a bookshelf, it stretches from the floor to the wall, similar to the designs in the Great Library, and on each row remains countless immaculately kept books.

"Sometimes," Frigga begins, as she runs her finger down the spine of a book. "I pretend that he never left, that he wanders the garden as he did as a boy, face buried in a book, obliviously unaware of the troubles ahead."

As she turns towards Thor, he notices the tears that pool in her eyes, for in her hands is a book, his book, their favourite. She would read to him when Odin refused or when Thor was preoccupied. He was quiet them, a pleasant and polite child, always polite, but also mischievous. The mischief was evident in the twinkle in his eyes, or as the corner of his lip upturned in a smile.

"This one was his favourite." Frigga solemnly states, sadness swells in her eyes as she glances back down at the book in her eyes; he was always careful with them, meticulous and precise, they were always kept in immaculate shape.

It is difficult for Frigga to believe that the boy who was once the kindest, sweetest and gentlest child is now a self-proclaimed Lord of Chaos. Such thoughts are what keep her up each waking moment, causing her to turn weary like Odin, but she cannot sleep, for she is unsettled, unnerved, unsatisfied with these recent turn of events.

"Have you visited?" Thor asks

He knows that the likely answer is no, considering the fragile emotional state that Frigga has been in as of late, but he inquires anyway, wishing to know whether she has been kept away by Odin or by her own accord. She shakes her head, confirming his suspicions, and even though he understands why she stayed away, even though he sympathizes with her, that does not stop the guilt from swelling in her eyes.

"He does not belong there." Thor declares.

Frigga closes her eyes, tears rolling down her cheeks as she steadies herself on the bookshelf. "I know." she whispers, almost as though she is fearful that the Allfather may here them. "He does not belong there."

"But he does not belong here." Thor announces. "Not yet."

She silently agrees, eyes open now, as she glances around the room slowly, soaking up memories of a childhood which feels as though it was far too long ago. After she reluctantly slots the book back into place, she runs her fingers along the spine once again, waiting patiently for the words that she knows are coming.

"Father must go to him." The God of Thunder tells her, because nothing will change until he does, all shall remain the silent, spiralling downwards and rapidly out of control, and this is the only way. "Father must go to Loki, he must fight for him."

"I will talk with Odin." Frigga states, "It will be done."

* * *

After Loki believes he has consumed enough of that paltry, unpleasant mush, he allows for his head to fall back against the wall once again, slumping to the side tiredly as he struggles to decipher what is wrong with him, why his body is deteriorating when he should be healing, improving, breathing easily.

"You must drink this." Sigyn says, effectively interrupting his train of thought; he answers her with a look that suggests that he has had quite enough, but she is persistent, a trait that he would have chided her for were it no for the overwhelming sense of exhaustion that has befallen him. "You must."

"An unruly maiden, I think not." Loki rasps, his thirst catching up with him; she regards him quizzically, for he does not act, or look, at all like a man plagued with madness and all that entails. "An apprentice healer, I think." he says, chest heaving slowly as he feels an awful sensation weighing down on his chest, near his ribs to be precise.

Having noticed this evident exhibit of pain, Sigyn sets the goblet down immediately. "Are you in pain, my prince?" she asks, a tiny frown on her features as she examines him closely, hands fluttering about as she assesses the wounds more critically than she had earlier.

_Always_, he thinks but does not dare say.

"Here?" Sigyn asks.

She presses lightly on his sternum and he hisses loudly before attempts to recoil from the touch by sitting up straighter but all movements are impeded by that piercing pain. His words are a low growl of barely concealed anger at this unanticipated agony, "Don't." he warns, but his words lack their usual viciousness.

"My apologies."

"You are a healer, are you not?" Loki asks abruptly, gruffly, ignoring her previous words as the pain shoots throughout him with each breath he takes. She nods once in response, eyes steady but there is a flash of something in those emeralds as he commands, "Heal me, then."

Loki laughs once, it is a rough sound, for he realizes now that she will not tend to him, that she will refuses to heal him on the grounds that he is not deserving of it. "You are bound by oath to heal those in need, and yet you refuse; how valiant of you, Sigyn, how admirably _brave_." he says, almost as though he is amused. "Here I was, foolishly believing that you and I had reached some sort impasse. A stalemate, if you like."

Sigyn remains silent, knowing full and well that she is bound by a higher power to not disclose the details of this arrangement with Loki. He exhales loudly, breath hitching as he feels that all too familiar pain rear its head as he does, before he speaks slowly, each word deliberate and purposeful.

"Irrespective of this inevitable betrayal," Loki murmurs, swallowing with a certain degree of difficulty before continuing carefully, careful not to cause himself further agony by allowing himself to become enraged, "I will heal, not by your own hand but by the hand of time."

"Inevitable betrayal?" Sigyn repeats the words, eyes no longer wandering his body, searching for the clasps on his clothes, instead they are firmly fixed on his face, in particular on those piercing blue and black eyes.

"You will commit this act of presumed bravery in the name of the greater good," he says, as though he has not heard her, as though her words are now meaningless, inaudible, for she has betrayed him and she does not deserve a voice, and yet he wastes his words on her regardless, "For you foolishly believe that eradicating all that is blackened and preserving all that is pure will, in turn, bring about a purer world, but you are misguided."

"I am bound to you, my prince." she states, and she does not miss the flash of a smile, more of a wince than anything, as he watches her. "I would not betray you."

"Lies." he grinds out.

Jaw clenched in pain, he inhales sharply through his nose, in a futile attempt to calm himself; once he is enraged, he becomes lost in that rage, consumed by it, he has been this way for too long, it is irrevocable now, he cannot be fixed, healed, his temper shall not fade with the passing of time.

"How can you tend to me? I am an animal, have you not heard? Old Odin is disgusted by my ways, he wishes for nothing more than my demise." he growls, gradually losing his hold on his anger. "How am I to be certain that this water has not been poisoned, this food not spoiled by a spiteful servant with a hatred towards a plight, towards a path, that he cannot comprehend?"

"Trust me." Sigyn commands.

"How am I to trust you, knowing that no good ever comes from putting faith in another?" Loki asks, temper fading, words becoming quieter and quieter.

He cannot trust her, trust is a luxury that he cannot afford.

"We are corrupted, all of us, rotted to our very cores." he continues, "Our souls are eroding each day we continue our existence, and, for reasons which remain unfathomable to me, we feel the incessant need to bare our souls, our blemishes, our blackened hearts to another in hopes that we will find solace, find home, comfort, find our 'other half' as it were, but we are only prolonging the inevitable."

"Pain being the inevitable." Sigyn surmises.

"Yes, but this is not mere pain; it is suffocation, desolation, _devastation_. We cling to our delusions so dearly that we often forget how devastating life is. I shed my childish ideals long ago and I suggest you do the same, otherwise you will know precisely how such pain feels if you continue to keep up such foolish pretenses."

Sigyn parts her lips to speak, but is abruptly interrupted by Loki, who has grown weary of her ways and wishes for nothing more than for her to leave him be, permanently this time, for she is a distraction that will ultimately become an obstruction; she is pure of heart, therefore she will attempt to purify him, and he refuses to indulge in such childish notions of second chances, new beginnings, rebirth.

"Do you know what devastation is, Sigyn? Do you know how it feels to be completely and utterly alone? To be terrified? To endure, because you are given no other choice but to?" Loki queries, because he is alone, alone in each sense of the word. He was terrified, once, but no longer.

"I do not presume to know devastation as intimately as you do, nor can I claim to know how it feels to be complete and utterly alone," Sigyn states, much to the surprise of Loki. "But I do know what it is to be endure."

"Then know I shall endure this, such as I have each tribulation preceding." Loki declares, darkness slowly begins to claim him; it is a sweet, soothing sensation, one that numbs his body and temporarily subdues the agony.

"I can heal your broken bones," Sigyn announces, as the veil of darkness starts to fall over his eyes, shading her face but not her eyes, never her eyes, he is always to see those earnest emerald eyes, and it is only then that he realizes she is working her magic. "But I cannot heal your broken soul."

"It is not about healing, Sigyn." Loki weakly disagrees, eyes tiredly closing as he feels sleep tugging at him, luring him back in with promises of temporary peace and a silent mind. "The key is endurance."

* * *

**A/N: **I am not particularly fond of this chapter, (I like pieces of the dialogue, but not much else) but it has been far too long since I last posted, and for that I apologize. I hope this chapter was somewhat satisfactory for all you lovely readers. I'll keep this short by just saying a quick thanks to each of you who read, review/favourite/follow, you brighten my day by doing so. Thank you.

Let me know what you thought.


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